Dragon Age: The Grey Wardens
by OnceMoreAndAgain
Summary: In the age they called the Dragon Age, for the six who would become legends, none of them could imagine what this Age and destiny had in store for them. Their concerns bordered upon the mundane or near trivial, from mere survival to high political intrigue; marriage to curiosity and training to trial. A multi-origin Dragon Age Origins fic.
1. Chapter 1: A Dwarven Commoner

The world turns, and time continues its ever-lasting forward march and Ages came and past, leaving memories that became legends. Legends faded into myth and even myths are long forgotten. In one Age however, the one they called the Dragon Age, there is one legend that would never fade away entirely.

A wind from the Anderfels, from the frigid steppes of Weisshaupt, stronghold of the Grey Wardens. The wind was not the beginning. In this legend, there were so many beginnings, varied and unique, origins both humble and grandiose. But it was a beginning.

The wind swept across Thedas, through the tall peaks of the Frostback mountains, warmed by the fires of Orzammar before moving across the waters of Lake Calenhad, across the Bannorn through Highever, then to Denerim and through the Brecillian Forest, bringing with it the scents of the Kingdom of Ferelden to those who smelt it.

For the six who would become legends, none of them could imagine what this Age and destiny had in store for them. Their concerns bordered upon the mundane or near trivial, from mere survival to high political intrigue; marriage to curiosity and training to trial.

For the Fereldan Commander of the Grey, his concerns were on a scale much greater than theirs. Revival of his order was of critical importance. Their numbers were few and the years were not passing by any slower. And so began brave Duncan's six-month recruitment effort that brought him across all of Fereldan and the story that would shake the world for Ages to come.

-0-

_"I suggest you reach for your purse swiftly friend. Ale may have dulled my senses enough so that I merely maim your pretty features, but should I become sober now I will be in a mood to show you a new realm of pain and violence."_

Bellara Brosca is above all things, a survivor. One does not get very far in Dust Town the way she has, sound in body if they didn't have a keen sense of self-preservation. Bellara is a rare sort for a duster; or so the higher castes would have the rest of the world believe. Competent with a strong sense of family duty. To the residents of Dust Town, the only true thing that sets Bells apart is the level of her competency. The younger Brosca sister is frighteningly good at inflicting pain and intimidation.

The Beauty and the Beast, is what the Brosca girls are called jokingly by their friends and derisively by others. Bell is of a mind to agree with them. Her sister is beautiful - and it frightens her with what that means.

Brosca watches Beraht carefully as he speaks, the muscles in her arms tensing, fighting the urge to reach for a dagger and stab the sodding nug-humper in the face every time he looks at Rica, but bites down hard on her tongue with every word out of his mouth. As much as she hates this, the situation, their life and the things they have to do to survive, there is no other choice.

The smug look on Beraht's face as he leaves has Bellara's fists shaking with rage, and her face is probably as intimidating as the darkspawn themselves, and in a moment of utter frustration, she hurls a knife at the door from which the man who holds their family's lives in his hand just left through.

"Bell!" Rica cries out in alarm at the sudden violence from her sister.

"Sodding moss-licking, Stone-kissed, motherless excuse for a nug humper!" she shouts angrily as she slams her fist into the wall. "Fucking Dust Town." she breathes out in a frustrated hiss before pulling herself back together.

It takes one look at Bellara's face for Rica to know what has her little sister so upset. It is an old argument between them - one grown stale and sour like their mother's moss-wine scented breath.

The idea of some slimy, whoreson noble putting his sweaty, grimy hands all over her big sister is repulsive and absolutely unacceptable for Bellara, as is the idea of Bellara being little more than a filthy crime lord's attack dog and a little piece of that sweet and loving little girl dying each and every time a knife is rammed in between someone's eyes is to Rica.

"I... Need to go and see what Beraht's got lined up for me," she breathes quietly , giving her sister a quick hug before leaving the house to find Leske.

Bellara smiles a little when she finds Leske hanging outside of the Brosca family home.

"About sodding time!" he exclaims, a smile on his branded face. "I was starting to think I'd have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours. Ga-row!"

Bells' hands instantly move to her hips and a frown easily makes its way to her face.

"I thought I told you that I never wanted to hear you talk about my sister that way." she says giving him the evil eye.

Leske, as always just shrugs it off like the glare that makes grown men quake in their boots is nothing at all.

"You're just jealous because you want the majesty of Leske for yourself, you shameless hussy." He says a smile on his face. "What do you say?"

He is only joking around, Bellara knows. He's not serious at all when he says things like this and its beginning to hurt a little less each and every time.

Bell knows that she's no Paragon of Beauty. The Beauty and the Beast, is the name the dusters use when they speak of the Brosca sisters. It's obvious which one is which. As much as Rica hates it and tells others off for using it, the name fits. Bellara tries not to think on it all too much, but she is still as much a woman as she is a fighter. She knows she isn't the prettiest thing to come out of Dust Town, but she isn't... ugly. Her hair isn't as long and beautiful as Rica's, nor is it the same bright, eye-catching red. As opposed to a burning flame, Bellara's hair is a dull and dirty copper. Her hands are hard from knife scars and callouses, her skin dusty, her face mean. But she isn't ugly.

She wonders, on days that she's feeling more than a little upset, if Leske will ever look her way.

Unlikely, she's never been more than just a friend to him - and she is fine with how things are between them anyway.

Her face though remains a perfect mask and retains its glare as she answers.

"I say that I think I may need to feed you your spleen," she growls threateningly, though there's a sparkle in her eyes that tells her long-time friend that she is merely joking. "Now what's the job?"

"Search and discipline. One of Beraht's smugglers is holding out on him." Leske reports, raising a warning brow to the 'good for him' that nearly comes out of her mouth. "Fellow named Oskias."

"Right, seems simple enough so where is this nug-licker?" Bellara says, cracking her knuckles in preparation.

"I don't know."

"What." Her voice is flat, and utterly devoid of any emotion as she states the word.

"Boss didn't say. His exact words were 'find him'. The 'or else' was implied."

It takes about three seconds for 'Beraht's Beast' to dig itself out of the flat mask she wore seconds prior.

"'Find him' he says," Bellara mutters angrily as she storms towards the particular edge of Dust Town where the beggars congregated, before singling out one she had used for information before.

Leske notices her mood easily enough - it's hard not to notice when Bells isn't happy - and keeps his mouth shut. Rage and aggression just radiates off of the young woman like the heat from the lava that surrounds the city.

It takes about a grand total of five seconds for Goilinar to cough up what little he knows after seeing the 'Beast's' expression.

On second thought there was probably no need for her to get so upset in the first place. Checking out Tapster's should have been the first thing to cross her mind.

"Let me put it this way, nug-shit," she tells Oskias calmly, and the smuggler has the nerve to look miffed that a brand has just so casually insulted him despite practically pissing his pants in fear.

"Beraht doesn't give a bronto's ass that you're 'innocent'. He says you're stealing from him, and that's really all that matters. So you can either fess up, and fork over the lyrium and leave here alive and run for the surface, or I can cut off your balls and put a knife in your belly and bring all the rocks to Beraht anyway."

Unsurprisingly, Oskias chose the former option and shortly thereafter, Bellara Brosca is holding two lyrium nuggets in her hand.

"You know," Leske says as they exit the tavern. "We only need one nugget to prove that Oskias was holding out on Beraht."

Brosca lets out a snort at that.

"Psh! Yeah, like anyone would buy lyrium off of a brand!"

Leske throws an arm around her shoulders with a laugh. "And that, my friend, is why you've got his majesty Leske on your side!" he says, a huge grin on his face. "I've got a merchant friend who would trade with us. We sell one, and split the coin, fifty-fifty. Whaddya say?"

Bellara slaps him back hard on the shoulder. "That salroka is the best thing I've heard all day today. Lead on!"

-0-

Her purse a whole fifteen silver heavier, she and Leske quickly and quietly hash out a believable sounding story for Beraht, since knowing the slimy bastard that he is, the man wouldn't hesitate to take their money as well.

The two dusters exchange quick looks before entering Beraht's shop, where to Bellara's silent distress, Jarvia - that bitch! - Beraht's second is there as well.

"It's about time you two showed up. What happened with Oskias?"

"He's guilty," Bellara states casually. "And this is what he had on him." She says handing over the one remaining nugget.

Beraht, is hardly pleased - but to be honest, when was he ever?

"One lousy nugget? You want me to believe that's all he got off with?" the crime lord seethes, his face taking on its characteristic red hue.

"He said he kept most of it topside," Leske puts in quickly, giving the story they had agreed on. "That was all he had on him."

Buy it. Buy it. Stone damn you, buy it! The two dusters pray fervently as they watch their boss's face.

"Very interesting," the crime lord says, his face deceptively calm. "seeing as how my cousin happened to be at the Tapsters this afternoon."

Nug shit. Is the word going through Bells' head at those words. Fucking nug shit. She curses as she keeps her face impassive.

"And he says he saw more than one nugget changing hands before that duster hit the tiles." He turns to his second. "Jarvia, search them. They got anything that looks more than they're worth, take it."

"With pleasure," that evil woman states with a smug smile before taking the second Brosca sister's purse, and emptying it onto the floor. Fifteen silver pieces and three bronze fall with a faint ringing as they landed on the floor.

Another fifteen silver hit the tiles as the same things was done with Leske's.

The shop is utterly silent for a long moment, before a loud crack splits the air as Bellara is laid out on the floor from a sharp gauntleted backhand from the crime lord and before she can even start to get up, Jarvia's foot forces her back down. Hard.

"You've got one more chance, Brosca." Beraht hisses in her face. "One job, and you split on this one, you and that sweet sister of yours are both out on the street. Is that clear, brand?"

"Crystal," she spits out, glaring at the man, when Jarvia kicks her again.

"What was that? I didn't quite hear you there."

"Yes sir." Bellara growls.

"Good." Beraht says, satisfied, nodding for Jarvia to let her back up. His second does so, though not before getting another kick in at the 'Beast'. "Now here's what I need you to do."

-0-

Fixing a Proving is a pretty bad offence - a whole House had been exiled to the surface for doing something along those lines. Tethras or whatever. Anyway, point is, they get caught doing this, they're as good as dead.

Somehow they manage to get to the Proving Grounds without much incident. And that's how she should have known that something bad was going to happen.

Everd is passed out, stone drunk on the floor. It's a sight Bellara has been a witness to countless times in her youth - moving Kalah from the floor to her pallet was a daily chore. It doesn't take a genius to realize that the two casteless dwarves are in trouble as deep as the Deep Roads.

"He could draw a dead man and still lose!" Leske exclaims in exasperation and nerves. "Ach. Beraht's going to kill us if we slip up here. He's already jumpy enough after that stunt with Oskias..." he says as he looks about the room nervously, before he pauses for a moment.

The roguish smirk that Bellara has always loved begins to creep across his face. He has an idea. It is an utterly insane and possibly foolish idea, but it is always brilliant.

"Hey, I've -"

"Got an idea?" she finishes for him. "Do I want to hear it? Because if it involves me putting on his armour and fighting in his name, it's not going to work," she tells him sternly, thinking up the stupidest thing they could possibly do to fix this.

"That's much better than my idea!" he laughs, which has her just staring at him. He had thought of something crazier than that?! "I was going to say we should go up in the stands and start a rockslide, but you're brilliant!" he tells her.

After hearing his idea, Bellara thinks that - yeah, maybe her idea had some merit after all.

"You'll go out in his armour, keep the visor down and then 'Everd' wins, Beraht wins, everyone wins!" he declares, waving his arm about Everd's room. "Except all the Warrior Caste braggarts who are face down in the dust from the Brosca Beast!" he chuckles, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "I sodding love the way you think, Bell. I was worried that Beraht was going to kill us!"

Pleased as she is by the praise, Bellara sees one big glaring hole in their situation.

"How, by the Stone am I going to beat them?" she asks. As formidable as her skills are made out to be, Bellara has never fought a trained warrior. Dust Town fighting was different from duels, where there were rules and such thing as fighting 'dirty'.

"Don't worry. You put on the armour and I'll go offer Mainar a drink. Easy. Sides, you're a Stone-sent monster in a fight salroka. Just keep your helmet down and lay'em flat."

She's glad that Leske doesn't seem to think there's going to be a problem - but it kind of hurts to be called a monster.

-0-

She manages to get through each battle - despite not having managed to drug Mainar. She manages to hash out some contrived responses that seem to offend some of the Warriors. Then again, her very existence offends them, so she figures that it is only fair, in some twisted way that she show them up like this. Considering how terribly easy they go down, if they're not strong enough to defeat a casteless woman, it's only fair that Ancestor's not grace them with any luck.

Though, to be honest the fact that she's beating the living sod of them has little to do with luck.

In fact, getting through each battle is more than a little easy. It doesn't matter that she's not fighting the way she normally does, using anything and everything she can get her hands on to bring the whoreson in front of her down. These Warrior Castes are just so slow. Never mind that Everd's armour is heavy and cumbersome, her hands are nimbler, her footwork smoother and her strikes are harder than theirs. Give her her throwing knives and these sodding bastards would have been dead at ten paces.

The only one who doesn't go down as easy is the Silent Sister - who is fast and precise with those blades of hers.

It's a bit of trickery and some real fast-talking that brings the woman down. Bellara thanks the Stone that the Silent Sister cannot speak - Everd being a woman would be a bit of a stretch.

Now all Bellara has to do is win the championship and -

"Oh _sod_."

* * *

Author Note: Goodness Gracious, trying to get a proper formatting is beyond ridiculous! There's probably some much smarter way that I'll figure out eventually.


	2. Chapter 2: A Dwarven Noble

Author Note: So we've started off the whole thing in Orzammar, land of the dust, dwarves and darkspawn. We've met our Dwarven Commoner, one Bellara Brosca, and now we meet one of those nobles that Bellara hates, ever so much. The pride of House Aeducan.

* * *

_"What I have seen and done to achieve my position defies belief. What I am capable of and will be party to in order to retain it would chill your soul."_

Duran Aeducan is above all, strong. The finest warrior in Orzammar, beloved by the people and possessor of and iron will and backbone, quick wit and a silver tongue. Like many of those in Orzammar with an education or some semblance of sense, dwarven tradition means little to Duran Aeducan.

The entire caste system was complete and utter nug shit and Orzammar - so steeped in tradition and ritual was heading towards collapse. Orzammar needed to be strong, with the darkspawn on their doorstep and their ever dwindling population, reforms needed to be made. But just because reforms were needed to be made, it didn't mean that he needed to be the one to do it. He was strong. He could afford to be lazy.

"Greetings my Lord! You're dressed and ready! Excellent!" a familiar voice calls out, shaking Duran Aeducan out of his thoughts.

"Ah, Gorim. You say that like it's a miracle that I managed to dress myself," King Endrin's second child smiles easily at the sight of his second and long-time friend. "So, what does my - ugh - schedule look like this fine morning?" He says with a shudder.

"Well, your father wants you to make an appearance at your feast, but the day is still young..."

"Well of course he wants me to show up. It's in my honour is it not? I don't suppose I could find some merchant who looks like me and dress him up, could I?" Duran interrupts him with a sigh.

"I'm afraid not, my lord. I don't believe there's a dwarf alive that could hope to impersonate the Aeducan nose."

Duran shoots Gorim an icy glare at the jibe. His nose wasn't that big, was it? Trian's nose is the largest out of the three brothers. He supposes he should be grateful that he took after their mother in looks - having inherited their mother's darker-blonde shade of hair and warm amber eyes. Duran was generally referred to - when not as 'Endrin's second child' - as the 'better looking one' of House Aeducan.

"Well I supposed he's having me come in to rescue him from holding court ... And having his ears talked off by all the lords - as if we don't have the darkspawn to worry about..." he says almost angrily before shaking his head as if to rid himself of these thoughts.

"Right, Gorim. The schedule?"

"New trading permits in the Diamond Quarter need to be seen and inspected, and the Grand Provings have opened - one has been organized in your honour, and you really should show your face there. Also if you wish to speak with them in preparation for the expedition, the Grey Wardens are in the city."

"Well, I suppose if I'm to make it back in time for the feast, I'd best get to seeing those stalls as soon as possible. If there is time I'll make an appearance at the Proving Arena." he decides then and there.

"Of course, my lord," says Gorim as he falls in step behind him.

"And for the last time, call me Duran!" he calls over his shoulder and is only met with a chuckle as they walk down the castle's long hallway.

"Bhelen?" a woman's voice calls out, and the second Dwarven Prince turns at the unfamiliar voice.

A young, beautiful red-haired woman is peeking out into the hallway from Duran's younger brother's room.

She freezes at the sight of the second Prince, but admirably maintains her composure as he approaches her.

He would be lying if he was to say he did not like what he saw.

The girl is a rare beauty. Gorgeous, long red braided hair, a sweet face that would bewitch any man were it not for the black brand on her face - marking her casteless and noble hunter.

"Who are you?" he asks her politely, to which her eyes go wide and she seems too nervous to answer.

"It seems..." Gorim begins. "That she is your brother Bhelen's newest... Companion."

Way to state the obvious, Gorim. Duran resists the urge to roll his eyes before kindly informing the girl.

"My little brother is attending my older brother today."

"Of-of course. It was presumptuous of me to assume he'd return to... I am sorry. I will show myself out, by your leave My Lord."

"Not yet," Duran tells her, and the girl freezes. "Just how long have you been seeing my brother? How many times have you met that you are already allowed to wait for him in his quarters? I take pride in knowing all the faces of those coming in and out of the palace, and I would never forget one as beautiful as yours..."

"I... well...My name is Rica. I have only met your brother a few times but... Forgive me if I caused you any inconvenience." she manages to get out, despite her obvious unease.

Duran looks at her, noting the way she has begun to fidget and the obvious impatience that is in her face. She is upset, nervous, and beneath all of that, deeply afraid - but strangely not of him. Whatever was troubling her was something else entirely.

"You're a rather plucky young lass aren't you" he says in a way that it is more of a statement than a question.

"I...my lord?" she says completely taken aback.

"It's not easy being a noble hunter - and not a profession one would take on by choice. We are not all as ignorant of what goes on in this city as some would have you believe," he says calmly. "For a noble hunter to get ahold of the clothing and education that they have, it would be near impossible for a casteless, unless someone was exploiting them. Your family is lucky to have someone willing to sacrifice themselves for them." he tells the girl who stares at him with something between a mix of awe and horror.

It is amazing how shocking it is for others to learn of how much he knows about the duster world and the parts of Orzammar that technically - on paper - don't exist.

Of course he would. He is the second Prince of Orzammar. If he is to help make his nation strong, he'd best know a few things about the blasted place first.

"So, what happened to your family?" he asks gently. "What was it that you wanted from Bhelen that you were waiting so impatiently for him?"

The words are barely out of his mouth when the mask the girl Rica has been wearing cracks wide open and her face crumples into a look of despair and she breaks down into tears.

Gently, he wraps the sobbing girl in his arms.

"It's alright. You can tell me."

"Oh my lord!" she manages to say between sobs. "I did want to ask something of your brother, even though it's far too early and presumptuous of me to think my problems are of any note to someone like him. "

"You give him too little credit," Duran murmurs mostly to himself in his little brother's defense, patting her back as he lets her take her time getting her story out.

"I'm scared, my lord. My little sister, she's..." she stops suddenly, as though realizing that what she is about to say could make everything go bad.

"You have a little sister. You speak as though you rely on her a great deal. But you live in Dust Town, so I suppose she got by doing the only thing she could." He says quietly, wondering what the younger noble hunter must look like if her sister was such a beauty.

"So, am I right to assume that she has angered your boss, and is now in trouble of some kind?" he asks.

Rica nods, as she calms down and moves out of Duran's arms.

"My sister, Bell, she's a very strong girl. The strongest in all of Dust Town, she's quick-witted and agile and very, very strong." the girl says, repeating it as if trying to convince herself of the fact. "She's so strong, and that caught the eye of the local crime lord."

"What happened to your sister, child?"

Rica stares at the floor as she speaks.

"Three days ago, at the Proving for the Grey Warden Commander..."

Her word choice and continued use of the word strong and the word Proving is beginning to make Duran believe that this 'Bell' is hardly a delicate blooming flower of a noble hunter, and a different picture is beginning to emerge.

"They were given a job at the Provings and I don't know how or why, but there was something about her impersonating some fighter...and then she was captured and I don't know where she is!"

Gorim's expression is one of utter shock as he speaks.

"Your sister won the Proving for the Grey Wardens?!"

"Well now I definitely want to meet this sister of yours," Duran states cheerily.

Anyone who could make a mockery of Orzammar tradition was all right in Duran's books - and if she was this fine woman's little sister, he'd bet she was a looker too.

"So... then... I know it's too much to ask, especially for someone like me but... Is there anything you can do? I'll do anything you want, please, at least try to find my sister! You're the Prince, you can I don't know, just... I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to her because of me! It was my fault that we got trapped working for that nug-humping bastard..." her choice of words sends Gorim's eyes wide and draws a quick smile from Duran as she continues her plea, seemingly unaware of her momentary lapse into cruder language.

"She's only ever done what she had to to keep me safe. She hated everything he made her do, but she did them for me and mother anyway. Please." Rica begs.

"Well, you did say that I should show my face at the Provings, didn't you Gorim?"

"That I did, my lord," Gorim sighs. "And I'm regretting it very much right now."

"Well, you've got my back don't you?" Duran laughs as he turns around and leaves the room, his second following close behind him, and the casteless woman standing very confused, but hopeful that perhaps things might work out for her family.

-0-

The Diamond Quarter is unusually busy this day - an influx of goods from the surface and an increased number of permits for merchants to sell their wares.

Duran browses the wares half-heartedy, his mind elsewhere, ruminating over the earlier conversation he had with his younger brother's newest paramour and the conversation he had with his elder brother. Things had been so different when they were children - but there is little use in reminiscing over old stories.

His attention is drawn by a stall near the gates, where a dwarf was selling magical wares from the Circle of Magi. Duran has always been fascinated by magic, and does not even bother to conceal his excitement.

Unfortunately, the merchant, so amazed was he that the second child of King Endrin, youngest commander of the armies ever was speaking to him, fainted on the spot.

"Wow..." Gorim manages to say in amazement after a long moment of silence. "He's fainted... You make quite the impression these days."

"Shut it, Gorim." Duran sighs. He supposes that he could always drop by this stall again later. "We're heading towards the Proving Grounds."

A fight of the first bout has only just concluded when Raonar and Gorim reach the seat of the Proving Master.

"Ah My Lord!" the Proving Master greets Duran enthusiastically. Duran is at least grateful that the man doesn't faint from the honour of meeting him. "Have you come to see these young warriors do battle in your honor?"

"Actually, I'm more interested in something that happened here a couple of days ago," the Prince smiles wryly. "I understand that a casteless lass was discovered to have impersonated a warrior and dishonoured our traditions?"

"Ah, so you've heard about that, Your Highness." sighed the Proving Master. "We were hoping to keep it as quiet as possible."

Apparently young 'Bell' had impersonated a drunken warrior caste who had been set to fight in the Proving and had firmly trounced all fights up until the final bout, when young Everd, stumbled into the arena drunk - and revealed the deception.

After that the fake 'Everd' refused to reveal 'himself', saying that 'he' had just beat the ever lasting sod out of all of them, what did it matter who 'he' was?

Cornered by the guards, it was revealed that 'he' was actually a 'she' and the brand across her face plain as day across her face. The girl was promptly arrested, which did not go very smoothly, as the girl promptly showed off her skills once more by making several guards look like incompetent children and gave the captain a black eye, split lip and a concussion before she was finally overwhelmed and captured.

"Now I really want to meet this girl," Duran says in an undertone to Gorim who lets loose a long-suffering sigh. "Where is this woman now?" he asks the man.

"There's the thing..." the man responds nervously. "She's nowhere to be found. She never made it to the prison after she was apprehended."

"Maybe she escaped," suggests Gorim as they leave the Proving grounds. "If she was able to get onto the Proving grounds, she probably knows her way around locks and cages."

"That, or her boss had her moved to some other prison," Duran counters. "And everyone knows who - or rather whom - has the resources to do that. Gorim, I do believe that it is high time that I paid a little visit to the Carta."

* * *

Author Note: So we have our Prince, and he's all set to rescue a damsel(?) in distress...

Edit 14/10/2012 : A sign of poor planning, in that I changed Duran's eye colour half-way through the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3: Collision in Orzammar

**Author Note: **Our Prince has set off to rescue a damsel in distress ; however this particular damsel is in no mood for a rescue. What she really is in the mood for, is one crime lord's head on a spit.

Dragon Age Origins (c) Bioware

* * *

The first thing that goes through Bellara's head when she wakes up in the Carta's dungeons and realizes it; once the ringing in her head dies down is 'What about Rica?'.

What is going to happen to Rica - and the all consuming need to get the _fuck _out of here and make sure her sister is safe is her driving force, as she casually just twists the simple guard's neck as soon as Jarvia is gone.

"Oh Stone! What do we do now? There's nowhere in Orzammar that Beraht won't find us!" Leske is panicking, as Bellara should be, but that is hardly an issue to her mind. "If we want to get away with this, we can't leave one man alive to tell Beraht what we've done."

"I'll do you one better Leske," Bellara says frighteningly calm, as she pulls on her knife belts and leather armour. "We kill everyone _and _Beraht. Simple. Effective. And sod-all _easy_."

"Look salroka, I know you've embarrassed the Warrior Caste for all of time, but this is the Carta_. You can't take down the whole Carta by yourself!_" her friend exclaims.

"I can try," she says as she thrusts Leske's gear at him. "Look, there's no way Beraht's _not _going to take this out on Rica, and I will rip any sodding bastard who lays a hand on my sister -'s throat out with my _teeth. _And _don't _say that's a ridiculous threat to make, because I've done it before!" she says, the spark in her eyes dangerous.

"All right Brosca," he says after a moment. "We're in this together after all, right?" he smiles weakly at that, as he takes his knives from her hands.

She could kiss him for saying that. It was good to know that Leske has her back. It's what she loves about the duster - even if he was always drooling over her sister.

"Though just promise me when this is all over, you tell Rica how I slaughtered Beraht, would you? I mean, it's not like it does much if she thinks you're the most virile dwarf in all of Dust Town. What? Don't look at me like that!" he laughs punching her lightly in the shoulder, teasing a smile onto her face.

"Come on, we've got skulls to bash."

-0-

It is a lot more work busting out of prison than the stories make it sound. Bellara thinks as the man who's throat she has just slit falls to the floor with the loud clatter of armour and makes a running leap to plant her foot into the face of another thug who was about to run Leske through. Letting her weight and momentum smash the poor sod's skull, she propels herself off and tucks into a roll, for an impeccable landing.

"Bell, am I ever glad I'm on _your _side..." the rogue laughs weakly, as she turned to help him back on his feet.

"Well we can't all be sodding amazing," she shrugs dismissively, as she discards her worn knives for a new pair that she loots off the corpses. "Beraht's got to be close by. With an investigation going on, the nug-humper is bound to be hiding out here somewhere. We've killed over twenty of these bastards already."

She kicks one of the corpses for emphasis. Hearing the tell-tale jingle of coins, has both dusters promptly searching the bodies for coin.

"What are we going to do after all this?" Leske asks suddenly as he empties out what few coppers the Carta thug had on him into his hand.

To be honest, Bellara hasn't thought that far - her main priority being to ensure Rica's safety- and Kalah's too.

"Well," she says, at least glad that Leske feels like they can maybe actually win this fight. Slaughtering a good chunk of the Carta seems to have upped his confidence somewhat. "I guess we could make a living on the surface..."

"The surface?!" Leske exclaims shocked by the idea.

"Well, are you about to run off and join the Legion of the Dead so soon after so narrowly avoiding death?"

"Point."

"Come on, let's keep going."

The Carta hideout is much like Dust Town, only cleaner - and every once in a while, small luxuries and trinkets are spotted. A fine carpet, a silk scarf, a book, a picture of the surface. Bellara fights the urge to set it all on fire. As satisfying as it might be, choking to death on smoke in these tunnels is hardly worth it - especially since they have yet to find Beraht.

No sooner than she thinks the words, they hear voices traveling down the stone halls.

"-cutting the whore loose." A familiar, hated voice states irritably. "If that freak of a sister of hers can't stay in her place, I don't need precious Rica either." Beraht declares to somebody.

"Rica?" some whoreson says. "That the one you got all dolled up in lace? I been wanting to get my hands on that."

"She's yours if you want her boys. And let met tell you, it tastes as good as it looks."

Bellara's vision goes red, and the sound of her blood pounding in her ears is almost overwhelming - or is it the sound of her feet, running towards that Stone-cursed bastard?

"What in sod-all is _that -" _she hears Beraht's voice and singles in on it, her hand reaching out and cutting off his voice as she grabs his throat and slams the long-bearded bastard into the stone floor.

There's a loud crack as Beraht proves that - he may be a slimy bastard, but he is a good fighter, knocking Bellara off of him.

"Boys, teach the whore a lesson!" he calls to his two lackeys- who he has yet to notice are no longer amongst the living- have knives buried between their eyes.

To his surprise, Bellara has taken his blow - gauntleted as it was - quite easily. In fact, it looks like it hadn't even hurt the duster bitch, even though her face is bruised and bleeding. Her dark green eyes are blazing as she stares at him, her lips drawn back in a snarl - and it's like he's facing an animal in dwarven skin.

_Well he can deal with a rabid animal_ - he thinks as he readies his blade, when the duster is suddenly gone from his sight.

"Wha-?" he starts when he notices that something does not feel right. Where was the floor? And why was there a hand coming towards his face?

Beraht was in the air, flying towards a door that he crashed through rather spectacularly, a knife buried in the gap between his chest plate and his chain mail, digging into where his neck joined the rest of his body and his face gripped tightly by a very strong hand.

Bellara slammed the filthy crime lord that had held her family in his grasp for far too long into the stone floor.

Bellara drives her second knife into Beraht's left eye, as the man screams.

"You know, today's your lucky day," she tells him as she pulls her dagger free, bringing the Carta boss's eyeball with it. "That whore Jarvia of yours took my knives - nice and sharp they were, not a speck of rust on them. Could slit a man's throat in under a second. Dead before he hit the floor. Today? All I've got are some rusty, blunt two-bit daggers." she snarls in his weeping, bleeding face. "And I'm going to do far more than just cut your sodding head off." she promises him. "Count on it."

-0-

Duran Aeducan is surprised by how _easy _it is for him to glean information about _one casteless _girl in all of Orzammar. 'Beraht's Beast' or Bellara Brosca as she's otherwise known as, is more famous than he is in certain parts of Orzammar. In fact, she seems to be directly responsible for Beraht's surge in power. The idea of the Dust Town Beast after you is enough to have those in the know - who are sober enough to register his questions, but not lucid enough to recognize his nose - to involuntarily shudder.

"An animal in dwarven skin, just like the rest of them brands!" one barely sober merchant declares, slamming his tankern of ale on the table for emphasis.

An old hobbled miner looks like he disagrees, and with a few prompts and a tankard of ale later, he relates the Brosca's story as he understands it.

"See, the older sister, Lica or whatever her name is, now there's a wench to set a man's blood on fire. Now afore Beraht gone and dolled her up, she was just another pretty duster. Summa Beraht's boys had their eyes on that rump and decided that they wanted a taste."

Duran can see where this story is heading.

"Little Bells decided that she didn't like no stinkin' local Carta boys putting their hands all over her big sister. And she was such a sweet child. Wouldn't have expected her to do something like that. Stabbed one of them in the back with a broken bottle, bit another's finger off and tore a man's throat out w_ith her teeth_. Sent the rest out of Dust Town, broken, bleeding and crying. Beaten by a _child_. Anyhow, Beraht was none too pleased and he put a leash on that little monster."

It is a frighteningly common story, Duran thinks. Though there is obviously more to this Brosca girl than a mere rabid animal. She did beat the living daylights out of several of the Warrior caste - in a Proving duel no less and none had suspected a thing. She is not only strong, but clever as well. Capable of channeling her rage in an appropriate time and manner - and that is something Duran Aeducan can appreciate.

He and Gorim exit the tavern only to be confronted by a terrible noise - and Duran is quite sure that they have located the Carta's front in the Commoner Quarter.

The screaming is a bit of a hint - and Duran rushes through the quarter towards the source of the screams.

Duran is not all to familiar with the nuances and differences and qualities of screams - but he knows that many tend not to do so unless one is in some degree of pain. The greater the pain, the louder the screams. And judging by how loud these screams are, it is a wonder that the screamer has enough lung power to do so. Just as that thought crosses his mind, the screaming stops suddenly and he increases his pace.

He hopes that he is not too late.

The scene he comes upon is hardly the one he expected to see. He had assumed that the lovely Rica's little sister would be in need of a rescue from Beraht - the apparent leader of the Carta based on the second Prince's investigation.

He was very, very wrong.

Rica's repeated use of the word strong seems shockingly appropriate as Duran stares in shocked horror as a dark-haired casteless man, and a young woman covered head to toe in blood, throws a bloody lump of what one must assume to be dwarven flesh - given the general shape and the beard - out of the store and onto the Commons' grounds.

He is shocked by how beautiful she is, even covered in gore, and dressed in rough leather armour. It is a different kind of beauty than her sister's. There is nothing soft nor sweet in the warrior in front of him, but she stands there, stained with blood, defiant and proud, the large black brand that covers half of her bruised face is clear as day, and her hair - a dull copper - is cut short and matted with blood, hangs loose about her face and she is _glorious_.

"What in the Stone's name happened here?!" exclaims a voice behind Duran, and he turns to find Gorim, the Commander of the Grey (whom he obviously must be, seeing as he is the only human in the entire quarter) accompanied by the captain of the guard along with some of his men.

"I did this sodding city a favour," states the woman, glaring meaningfully at the body on the ground. "Ya'll should thanking me that this sodding nug-humper's dead."

Yes. Definitely Rica's sister.

"Beraht? _That's _Beraht?" Duran Aeducan asks, 'that' obviously being the bloody lump of flesh on the stone floor.

"Ancestors' preserve me," some of the fresher recruits gag at the sight of the crime lord's remains.

"Beraht? He had many enemies, but also powerful allies, he-" the guard captain murmurs to himself.

"Was the leader of the Carta," Duran states easily, toying with one of the braids in his beard, drawing attention to himself drawing both horrified and awed gasps from the guards. "You've done Orzammar a favour, young lass."

"And who the sodding hell are you?" the blood soaked woman demands, her green eyes sparking angrily.

"That's King Endrin's _second son! _Show some respect _brand!_" an indignant guard demands, raising his sword at her.

"Oh it's quite all right," Duran says, dismissively, pressing the sword down. "The lass has had a trying day." _Or life, really._

"Beraht would have done a thousand times worse to the two of us if she hadn't killed him!" the other casteless states emphatically.

"And your friend once again, shows her courage," the Grey Warden states, his expression firm, like he has decided something. "The Wardens could always use someone like that."

"Orzammar could too," Duran mutters under his breath, which to his surprise, the dwarven girl seems to hear and her eyes shoot towards him in suspicion, and a quick smile flashes on the Warden's face as he continues.

"Let me make my formal offer. I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation for you, young lady, to join our order.

"That's preposterous!" the captain splutters angrily. "This woman is wanted for treason. You can't do this!"

"You will find, Captain," Duran interrupts smoothly. "That he very well can. The Grey Wardens are permitted to conscript whoever they so choose into their order, be they criminal or king."

"Thank you, your highness." Duncan nods in gratitude for not having to go about cracking skulls or invoking the Right of Conscription left, right and center.

The casteless dwarf suddenly seems to come out of her momentary stupor, "But what about my sister?", are the first words out of her lips.

"Don't you worry about that." her companion tells her reassuringly, an easy smile on his face. "Ol' Leske'll take care of her."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

While the two casteless have their own conversation, Duran turns to his second who is giving him a reproving stare.

"What time is it, Gorim?" he asks in a too innocent voice

"It's about time for the feast, my lord." Gorim says with a long-suffering sigh.

"Oh how time flies," he smiles easily. "Well I suppose I had best get back to the palace then, won't I?"

* * *

**Author Note: **And so the Dwarven Commoner is recruited and Duran Aeducan returns to his 'normal' life...

It will be glaringly obvious as to which Origins I paid attention to when I was playing this game as this story progresses.


	4. Chapter 4: Leaving Orzammar

**Author Note: **Well, I suppose that now all of that casteless business is out of the way, our Prince can get back to the 'joys' of being a Prince of Orzammar.

Dragon Age (c) Bioware

* * *

Trian is, of course hardly pleased that his little brother is late to his own party and spends a good five minutes telling him in a harsh undertone how much of an embarrassment he is to House Aeducan and blah blah blah.

Duran has heard these lectures a thousand times over - and quite frankly they no longer mean anything to him.

"I've had to put up with him all day! He wants to kill you, you know." Bhelen tells his older brother almost casually.

"Yes. I am aware. He's only expressed that sentiment every day since I was ten and put beetles in his soup." Duran sighs exasperatedly, and ruffling his younger brother's hair affectionately. "You'd think he'd grow up a bit."

"Stop that. And no. He's _really_ going to kill you. You're the man everyone wants to be king and he knows it. The people love you. Stone, even the Assembly loves you! And you call them Stone-blind idiots on a daily basis!" Bhelen says in an angry whisper, as he bats his older brother's hand away from him.

"Truly?" Duran chuckles. "And not a one of them have noticed? You don't suppose I should write it down on cards for them then should I?"

"I'm being serious here, big brother. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't heard him giving orders to his men." Bhelen tells him earnestly.

"Bhelen, Trian may be a pompous, bullying ass, but he's not going to kill any of us for the throne," he tells his brother firmly. "Besides, he's father's heir, and I'm the brother who hits people with axes."

"You _know _that the Assembly has overlooked the heir to name a more suitable second son or cousin as King before."

"And _clearly_ kinslaying is a trait everyone looks for in a king. Enough!" he tells Bhelen angrily, before softening into a smile to reassure his younger brother that he's not really mad at him.

He doesn't like the sound of any of this at all.

He knows that the relationship he once had with his elder brother when they were children is long gone but for Trian to want him dead...

"Thank you, little brother, for worrying, but everything will be fine tomorrow. You'll see. Now we'd all best get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day!"

-0-

Aeducan Thaig is - a lot gloomier than he thought it would look - then again it _is _a tomb of sorts. Though the dwarves that have apparently been loitering here are anything but dead - he notes as he lobs off the head of the last of the mercenaries with his axe.

"Phew, there's no better way to end the day than killing idiots after darkspawn," Duran jokes as he pulls off his helm.

"My lord, you should see this," Gorim says, his expression grim as he holds out what he's just found on the leader's corpse.

"It's an Aeducan signet ring," Duran notes, as he takes it into his own hands for further inspection. "It's Trian's." he sighs recognizing the scratch he made years and years ago. "Oh brother, when will you learn to never leave important things lying around..."

"My lord, you don't think..."

"Well now," Duran says a little too brightly. "The shield should be somewhere around here."

His second merely nods, noting the tightness in his lord's smile, and the dark cast to his eyes, saying anything more is likely to earn him a punch in the face or if Gorim was anyone else, an axe.

His ancestors must have all been paranoid bastards, Duran grouses to himself - what with the ridiculous ways they went about safeguarding their treasures. Then again, if they hadn't, there would be nothing left here to reclaim, what with the darkspawn and all.

The puzzle is hardly the height of complex dwarven engineering. In fact, Duran is a little upset that he has no reason to become inordinately frustrated with the sarcophagus and take out said frustration on the stone coffin and smash it into tiny pieces.

He has to give them some credit though - the Aeducan Family Shield is a wondrous piece of work. He hefts it experimentally, letting it rest on his shield-arm. Solidly crafted Silverite that is in remarkably good shape despite the pits and scarring across its still shining surface. He gives it an experimental swing and is surprised and its weight - or lack thereof.

"The Smiths knew what they were doing, that's for sure," he remarks as he promptly wraps it up for transport.

Of course it's at that moment that the darkspawn decide to come out of hiding to play.

The second son of House Aeducan has never understood how his people are losing ground year after year to the mindless horde. Yes they are numerous and vicious and by the Ancestors are they ever ugly, but the dwarves are better armed, more devious and cunning than their enemy a thousand times over. He knows that the dwarves prefer to bicker and squabble amongst themselves and relive the glories of their Ancestors and all but ignore the fact that they are marching towards their deaths with each and every thaig that is lost to the spawn, but it does not have to be that way.

Duran Aeducan stands his ground as a blight wolf charges at him, bellowing something awful, and the two scouts that have accompanied him rush away from it. Gorim, as always protects his Prince's back, deftly slicing the arm off of an over-eager genlock.

Duran raises his shield and pushes back against the blow, knocking the creature off-balance, and promptly slashing open its belly with his axe, before decapitating the monstrosity.

For Duran these spawn are hardly a challenge - then again few in Orzammar could claim to be Endrin's second son's equal in the arena. The man, young as he is at twenty-three years of age is a force to be reckoned with on the field.

He is no berserker, rushing in to battle with rage and fire in his blood, swinging his axe in a crazed heat. Duran is a steel wall. His back ramrod straight and his stance steady and calm, his warm, caramel coloured gaze steadfast and confident. His skill with shield and blade - axe, mace or sword is unsurpassed - and as his second knows full well - the safest place on the field of battle is behind the Aeducan.

In fact, Frandlin Ivo and the other scout do almost nothing as Duran and Gorim make short work of the small darrkspawn party.

"Well," the prince says, as if nothing of any note has occurred. "We'd best get to the rendezvous. By the crossroads, was it?"

Gorim takes him aside as they traverse the Deep Roads.

"My lord, if I may?"

"Of course Gorim, you know I value your opinion on any and all things - well almost all things," he smiles at his best friend. "And for the last time, call me Duran."

Gorim smiles ruefully at that before his expression grows serious.

"My lord, if Trian really were scheming against you, this point would be the perfect place for an ambush."

"Really Gorim? Not just Bhelen, but you too?" Duran sighs tiredly.

"As much as you may hate to admit it, but your brother's hostility towards you has only increased over the past few years. We've got the shield, and we're all alone out here." Gorim says looking about pointedly.

"Am I the only one who believes in something called family ties and kinship?" Duran quite nearly snaps at his second.

"Trian is my brother. Nothing will happen."

"My lord - "

Gorim is only worried for him, that is clear enough - and knowing his own habits, Duran supposes he should be. The game of dwarven politics is fast-paced and ruthless and Duran is a strong believer in that such words should only be used to describe a battlefield. He has long avoided the whole game, preferring to immerse himself in the people of Orzammar and battle.

That Trian's attitude towards him has soured over the years is clear enough to the Aeducan prince. The two brothers rarely talk anymore and when they do so , their words are barbed and mocking. Trian may very well want his life - his brother has always been insecure towards his position as heir - and a long, long time ago, he would confide his fears in his younger brother.

"Nothing. Will. Happen." he repeats firmly, marking the conversation as officially _over_.

"As you say, my lord." Gorim says reluctantly, as Duran looks ahead.

By the Ancestor's, he hopes his brother isn't up ahead.

-0-

To say that things have gone badly would be a horrendous, and gross understatement - quite possibly the greatest understatement of the Age.

Duran's mind is numb. Time seems to have stopped suddenly for him, and yet the rest of the world rushes by.

His older brother is dead.

His younger brother - accuses him of fratricide.

Trian is dead.

His scouts - Frandlin Ivo lying through their teeth.

Trian is dead.

A prison cell.

His big brother - the man who would always have a smile for him as a child - dead.

Gorim - reliable, loyal, Gorim - exiled to the surface, and Duran himself, sentenced to die in the Deep Roads without trial.

His big brother is dead.

Harrowmont says something - but Duran does not hear him.

His big brother is dead and his little brother has killed them both.

It's not until he is standing in the Deep Roads, without armour or weapons that the rage sets in.

He's not sure how, but Duran finds himself, his hands soaked in darkspawn blood staring down at a darkspawn corpse.

Without thinking, he sets about looting the bodies for any gear or weaponry that he could possibly use.

There will be _words _if - _when. Not if. When. Count on it brother._- he sees his scheming little brother again. Probably punctuated with an axe if need be.

The darkspawn are coming, and he lets them break their iron teeth against him as he meets them blow for blow, steadily retreating towards a narrow passageway.

Without a decent shield, or a proper blade, he has little chance of making it to the Grey Wardens.

"By the Maker, another dwarf!" an oddly accented voice exclaims, forcing Duran to look up from where he has just finished off the last of the darkspawn.

Looking around, Duran has absolutely _no idea _how he got to this point in the Deep Roads. The trail of darkspawn corpses make it a little clear to the Wardens however.

"Lord Aeducan!?" the dark-skinned Commander of the Grey exclaims, the disbelief clear in his voice.

"Which sodding one?"

"What are you doing here alone? Where are your troops?" Duncan asks as a familiar branded face comes up.

"You?!" the casteless girl points at him in recognition. "You're - You're that noble!"

"Noble no longer," Duran grunts, pulling his scavenged blade free from genlock skull. "Or do you think I'd choose to wear such shoddy armour out here in the Deep?"

"They made the sodding Prince of Orzammar walk the Deep Roads?!"

"You mean you were exiled? What happened?" one of the humans asks curiously, to which Bellara Brosca follows up with a:

"Which nug-humper's delicate sensibilities did you offend this time around?"

Two days ago, that may have brought a smile to his face.

"My brother apparently." he answers curtly, his face devoid of any expression.

"Lord Trian?" Duncan asks, his posture shifting in an almost aggressive manner.

Duran laughs uproariously at that - a bitter, humorless laugh.

"Trian couldn't scheme his way out of a paper bag. No, apparently my little brother Bhelen decided that he'd much rather be an only child." he manages to get out between chuckles.

Duncan seems to relax a little at that, but his face shows his concern and empathy for Duran's plight.

"I see. The brutal intrigue of the dwarven court continues, then. Your father intimated as much." the human says softly. "There is no reason for you to walk these Deep Roads to die for something you did not do."

"Is he coming with us?" one of the Wardens asks, to which the casteless dwarf a wicked grin on her lips lets out a "Sod yes, I hope so! Could always use another head basher on these sodding darkspawn. I mean do you see what he just did to that blighter?"

Duncan sends the brand a silencing look before turning to Duran.

"Your level of ability is outstanding, and your exploits in the Deep Roads set you apart. As leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, I would like to formally invite you to join our order."

"I accept," Duran says immediately. If he is _ever _going to get to give his little brother a piece of his mind, he needs to live. He knows that if he goes on to be a Warden he may not see his brother fora very long time but- he will, eventually, one day, like all Wardens who live long enough do, go through Orzammar to fight their last hours in the Deep Roads.

And when that happens, he and Bhelen are going to have _words_.

* * *

**Author Note: **And so ends the Orzammar Origins Arc.


	5. Chapter 5: An Elven Mage

_**Author**_** Note:** So we've left the Frostback mountains and Orzammar behind, and now turn our attention towards Lake Calenhad - and the Magi Tower with it, where we meet our young, elven mage who calls it home. _  
_

Dragon Age (c) Bioware

* * *

_"Tread carefully, friend. If you intend to cross the path of one whose soul is so tightly woven into the realm of the arcane, I would not suggest you do it lightly."_

Neria Surana is above all things, a dreamer. Like many mages, she dreams of life outside of the Tower, of the world the Chantry say they're protecting from her. Like many she reads books - what else is there to do in the Tower? - and while she has never seen a cow, she imagines as to what it must look like. While the wonders of the world outside are one of her interests, her true passion is for _ideas_. A dreamer _and _an idealist who's sole goal is to learn and understand.

It takes some time for any of the new templars at Kinloch Hold to reconcile the fact that the pretty little elf with the biggest blue eyes and oddly styled raven black hair is the Fereldan Circle's most talented apprentice of their generation and is quite possibly completely _mad._

What other mage would approach a templar and ask, as seriously as you please:

"If all the coin in Thedas were to be used to fill in the Deep Roads, do you think it could stop a Blight or would it be enough to cover all of Antiva?"

It is in fact, a wonder in and of itself that she has not been made Tranquil and is a testament to how fond the First Enchanter is of the girl. She is, while at times off-putting with her complete inability to _shut up_, utterly harmless - unless one counts the amount of damage she can do to one's eardrums. One would have expected the oddity of the girl to have been disciplined out of her from an early age.

Neria has lived in the Tower near all her life and yet she is still nothing if not _odd_. She wanders the Tower barefoot, and her robes are more often than not modified to bare her shoulders and cut short by her knees - sending practically every Chantry mother she passes by into a fit and many of the templars very uncomfortable when she stops to talk to them. She climbs the bookshelves and goes missing for hours at a time, alarming everyone about a possible escape only to be found perched high up on a statue, reading a book, oblivious to al the shouting.

She is always asking questions, and the more awkward or strange the question the better. And her timing is something short of divine in their ability to render a conversation completely awkward or inappropriate.

"Oh, hello Cullen!" she chirps, a smile on her face as the curly-haired templar - who incidentally really should speak to somebody about that stutter of his - rouses her from her sleep. "Did you need something? Oh hello Greagoir!" she starts when a gauntleted hand is placed gently over her mouth.

"Mmmrf? Really, there's no need for that. I'm perfectly capable of keeping my voice down if you need me to." she continues her voice muffled by a very nervous looking Cullen, the cheery light in her eyes still present as a pillow from one of the other girls' bunks sails through the air to hit the Knight Commander in the head with a soft poomf!

"Maker's breath Surana, shut _up!" _the voice of one of the older apprentices groans sleepily.

The look on Greagoir's face brings a smile to her lips - thankfully hidden by Cullen's hand over her mouth.

"You really shouldn't frown so much. Irving's always telling me to not make faces or my face will get stuck that way. Oh! I'm sorry! I'm terribly sorry. I should have thought about that! You're always frowning, so I've always thought that you must be constantly grumpy." she tells him - or tries to. Cullen tightens his grip on her jaw a little as she's essentially hauled out of bed.

"Are you alright Cullen? You're looking rather red. You don't have a fever do you? The new apprentices brought a nasty cold with them, you'd best get yourself checked out by a healer if you're not feeling well," she asks as if absolutely nothing is wrong as the two silver-armoured templars are taking her somewhere - she thinks she recognizes where and she is just a little nervous.

Every apprentice knows about the Harrowing. Not everyone comes back from it whole - or at all.

First Enchanter Irving and another templar are waiting in the Harrowing Chamber, the room dimly lit and the main source of light -

"Is that lyrium?" she asks nobody in particular once Cullen releases her, and as always she does not bother to wait to hear an answer.

"Well it's an awful lot of it. Enough to send someone into the Fade for a - ohhhh! So that's what the Harrowing is. Must be dreadfully expensive to do this... I wonder..."

"Neria, child," Irving says gently.

"Yes, First Enchanter?" she says, mildly distracted from her ramblings.

"A moment of silence, if you would, please?" the old man asks of her, and she nods absent-mindedly as she ponders her remaining questions when Greagoir begins to speak.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him - " And immediately loses Neria's attention. Yes yes. She knows this all already. 'Thus spoketh Andraste' and then the Tevinter's set her on fire because she called them fat.

Mages are gateways for demons into this world - abomination! Grarrr! blah blah blah.

Neria has long since given up on trying to understand the Chantry. She understands the dangers of magic - though she does believe that she's more likely to set herself on fire by accident then summon a demon - and understands why people would be afraid of her, but she wonders if all _this _is necessary? Templars, Circles and the constant reminder that she is a monster wrapped up in a pretty elf's skin that is just _waiting _to kill unsuspecting children and rule Ferelden. She hasn't even _met_ a real Fereldan, really. Templars did not count - they didn't quite count as people in Neria's mind, seeing as they just stood around and watched, and occasionally chopped people's heads off- they were really more like portraits and statues.

Anders was from the Anderfels - assuming from the name, and Daylen Amell was from the Free Marches - they hadn't wanted the whole Amell brood in one Circle, the 'awesome' would have overwhelmed them, the human man was fond of saying. Jowan was Fereldan - maybe - he wasn't sure, and Neria couldn't remember any of her life before the Tower.

"The ritual will send you into the Fade," the First Enchanter tells her. "And there, you will confront a demon, armed with only your will."

Neria was - quite honestly not impressed. Really? That's all? As if she has no experience confronting demons in the Fade on a nightly basis? Admittedly she's never gone actively picking fights with them, but still.

"The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity child. Every mage must go through this trial by fire," Irving says, probably guessing her thoughts. "Keep your wits about you, and remember -"

"The Fade is a realm of dreams, and my will is my own," Neria finishes for him. "Yes First Enchanter, I know."

"If you are ready then."

Neria approaches the standing basin of lyrium and stares down at the shining liquid, before extending out a hand towards it.

The world whites out for a moment, and she allows herself a moment to orient herself and affirm her form in this world. She could be taller than she is in her real body - but decides against it. She needs a form that she is comfortable enough in to do battle with a demon.

An odd looking statue draws her attention, as does a pot filled with specks of light.

She stares at the odd looking statue. It looks a bit like a person, if she tilts her head just so and squinted at it just right. A person screaming at the heavens? A prisoner in chains, twisted by his rage or powerlessness or just very hungry?

"Someone else thrown to the wolves? Fresh and unprepared as ever." a morose, bitter sounding voice emerges from somewhere. Neria glances about searching for the source until she notices a small dark shape near her feet.

"Oh, hello there," she says crouching to speak to the Fade mouse.

"It isn't right that they do this, the templars! Not to you, me, anyone!" it grumbles angrily.

"They're templars. Bullying mages is what they do. So are you - or I suppose the correct question would be 'were you' a mage?" she asks the small rodent.

The rodent shines with a white light for a moment before resolving into the form of a young man in red robes.

"Allow me to welcome you to the Fade, you can call me..." the man seems unsure for a moment before shrugging. "Well, Mouse."

"That's an odd name for a human," she says. "Normally you've got all these funny sounding names like, Elizabeth, or Greagoir. Greagoir's one of the funniest names I've heard in my time. Well there was Hortensia, but that's the name of one of the Divines, they all have ridiculous sounding names and-"

"It's not my real name. I've forgotten everything from before," Mouse says irritably. "The templars kill you if you take too long. They figure you failed and don't want something getting out. That's what they did to me, I think. I have no body to return to. And you don't have much time before you end up the same!"

"Well it can't be _all _bad. Except for the demons and being dead and all. You can change your shape here, that's not something they teach us how to do in the Tower - I've always wanted to be a bird, fly somewhere other than in my dreams," she says almost conversationally, as she begins walking along the path that's before her in the Fade, willing a mage's staff into being.

Light, wooden and with a metal blade tied to one end of it and she spins it experimentally. Suitable.

"I suppose the templars would be rather cross if we all turned into birds and flew away from the Tower - whole country would be in an uproar I guess. It's not like we'd all fly off to take over the country. I'd like to see Antiva, or Rivain one day. All the books describe them as fascinating places, and it's supposed to be warm and sunny there. I'd like to go to Par Vollen, but that's even more unlikely than Antiva, since the Qunari hate anything to do with magic. "

"Did you listen to a word I said?" Mouse asks her, almost astonished by how she seems to be treating this whole experience like a walk through a metaphorical park.

"Of course I did. I just have to find this demon and beat the everlasting daylights out of it, don't I?" she says, sending a bolt of arcane power towards a small glowing wisp that tried to shoot something at her.

"You're... Rather strong, aren't you?" says Mouse as he watches her smack a spirit wolf away with the side of her staff, before incinerating the creature with flames from her hands.

"Mmmm," she muses as they continue walking. "I wouldn't say that. I can cast spells and read hard books, but I'm not strong. Nearly tore a muscle trying to get Jowan out from under that stupid bookshelf. We were lucky that Daylen was nearby and Cullen was close enough to help. The bookcases are very heavy. I bet that if you took all the books in the Tower and made a staircase, you could probably climb to the very top. Or cross the lake! Though the books would be dreadfully soggy and that would be a complete waste of all that paper and knowledge."

She makes her way through the Fade easily enough, barefoot and twirling her staff periodically as she moves, humming a nameless tune that she heard once a long time ago from somewhere, when they come upon the sloth demon.

The demon has taken on the form of - based off of images she's seen in books - a Bereskarn. Blighted Bears, with spikes that might be bones erupting from all over its body.

"Hmm," it says, one eye opening to look at the young mage in front of it. "You are the mortal... Being hunted." Its speech is slow, and each word seems to be drawn out of it with the utmost reluctance. "And the small one... Is he to be a snack for me?"

"I don't like this," Mouse states rather quickly - and understandably. "He's not going to help us. We should go."

"Well, he looks very uncuddly," Neria says tilting her head to the side as she appraises the demon. "I doubt the demon would like to hug him all that much - or be hugged by him. Do you think you could learn to be like him Mouse?"

"I'd make a terrible bear, how would I hide?" the red-robed mage practically squeaks.

"Think of the bragging rights!" she says. "Not everyone can be a bear. And it's a good skill to have, I'd say. You could also help me fight the demon. I'd say he's a little overdue for a sound thrashing wouldn't you?"

"You. Are a very odd person. But I'll try. I'll try to be a bear," says Mouse turning to the Sloth demon. "If you'll teach me."

As one would expect from an obviously lazy creature, the demon dismisses them easily.

"That's nice, but teaching is so exhausting. Away with you."

"But we're asking so nicely!" says Neria. "I guess we'll just have to start asking not so nicely..."

Her staff vanishes from her back and is in hand and she points it at the demon.

"Right, so. Teach Mouse now, or I put you on a spit and roast you over a fire."

Neria Surana is not a patient girl, and takes pride in that she always makes good on her threats. Never threaten someone with something you can't realistically do.

It's just not scary if you say you'll turn them into a toad and they call your bluff and nothing happens. Threatening to hang someone with their own intestines on the other hand and explaining to them that their intestines won't feel anything - _really she could set them on fire and you wouldn't feel a blessed thing_ - works wonders. Intestines wouldn't make a great hanging material - too slippery with blood, and water and last night's soup. But completely possible - _mage, you know_ - to keep someone alive long enough to hang, even with their insides spilling out of them.

It will be funny to see Jowan's face when she tells him she bullied a Sloth Demon and beheaded a Rage Demon.

It's not so funny when Mouse - who she knew the entire time was a demon (an apprentice, in Senior Enchanter Robes? Really?) - turns out to be a Pride Demon and very big and very, very scary.

Neria is not sure what exactly happened after that, because the next thing she knows is that Jowan is prodding her awake.

If there is one thing that Jowan still has yet to learn after Maker knows how many years, is that Neria Surana is _never _to be startled awake.

"Maker's breath, Neri - it's _me_!" the human man manages to get out before the elf girl comes to her senses.

"Jowan?" she says surprised to see her long-time friend clutching his stomach, bent double in pain.

"Well, at least I know you're all right. They carried you in this morning. I didn't even realize you were gone all night." Jowan groans as she sends a wave of healing green magic over him, undoing the light bruising she's just given him from kicking him in the stomach, repeatedly. "So what was it like?"

"Harrowing?" she supplies as she ties up her hair to dangle on the left side of her head, remembering how the First Enchanter had told her that it was supposed to be a secret.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. Come on, I've been here longer than you have and I don't know when they're going to call me for _my Harrowing_." he says in such a dejected tone, that Neria decides that secrecy be damned. This is _Jowan_. The only friend she really has in the Tower - Daylen is more often than not a bit of a jerk.

She glances about to check to see if anyone's watching - which is stupid because the templars are _always _watching - before motioning for him to come closer.

"They want you to prove that you're not a threat," she says quietly. "That you won't succumb to a demon. That you won't become an abomination."

All obvious things, but she hopes that Jowan understands what she's saying, before in a louder voice, starts to babble.

"Though abominations are hardly attractive, I mean, what could they possibly offer you that justifies being _that ugly_?" she says.

"This isn't a joke Neri!" he hisses desperately at her, and she just stares at him. She _had just told him_ _what the Harrowing was_. Did she have to spell it out for him?

"You know that the Circle forces Tranquility on those they feel are weak!"

"You're _not _weak Jowan, and don't worry. I've got your back," she says reassuringly.

"Great, I've got a crazy little elf girl to help me," he mumbles morosely, but she thinks he's feeling a little better. "Never mind. I was supposed to tell you to see Irving as soon as you woke up."

Neria makes a face at that.

"But I just _saw _him at the Harrowing," she whines. "What could he want now?"

"I don't know, but you shouldn't keep him waiting."

-0-

Of course, Neria being Neria, she puts off actually going to Irving's office for the longest time, deciding that today would be the best day to talk with pretty much _everybody _in the Tower. She makes a bunch of younger apprentices laugh, and combs through much of the library.

She speaks with Senior Enchanters and convinces some of them that being an Isolationist would be an absolutely terrible idea should they be stuck on a mountain with _her _for years on end.

By the time Neria enters Irving's office, the old man has three guests. Greagoir is hardly unexpected, but the dark-skinned Rivaini and the blonde dwarf are not.

"Ah, if it isn't our new sister in the Circle," Irving remarks with a smile, though Greagoir looks hardly pleased by her tardiness. "Come, child."

"Is it possible for you to be my brother, First Enchanter?" Neria asks, though she approaches out of habit anyway. "I mean, you are a great deal older than I am, possibly old enough to be my grandfather- but I doubt mine ever lived to be as old as you - but the elves were once said to be very long-lived, and I do know that the child between an elf and a human is always human, but it seems very unlikely to be honest. I suppose it might work should we share a father, but I don't remember him all that well..."

"Neria."

"I spoke with Eadric and he says that -"

"Neria." Irving repeats more firmly, interrupting her train of thought.

"Yes, First Enchanter?"

"A moment, if you please?" the old human man smiles gently. "We have guests."

"Oh, right. Sorry," she says sheepishly, nodding towards the two strangers. "Oh is he a dwarf? I mean, are you a dwarf? And not just a very short bearded human? Sorry, that must have been terribly rude, may I offer you my apologies... Unless dwarves don't apologize or. Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that I've never seen a dwarf and all the books describe you as short, bearded folk, and you seem to be short - well shorter than I am and I am terribly sorry if I've offended you - and well you do have a rather big beard. It's a magnificent beard though, it's rather lovely, I suppose and -"

"Neria, child." The First Enchanter says, his voice a little strained.

"Yes First Enchanter?"

"Please be quiet."

Neria is about to open her mouth to apologize for being so rude, when Irving merely looks at her meaningfully, and she keeps her mouth closed. Greagoir looks like he's just about ready to Silence her should she even look like she's going to speak.

"This is...?" the dark-haired Rivaini man asks, to which the First Enchanter nods.

"Yes," he says tiredly. "This is she. Neria, this is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens." He motions to the young - compared to him - human next to him. Greagoir shoots her a warning glare, and she merely nods, instead of introducing herself.

"And with him is Lord Duran Aeducan, also of the Grey Wardens."

Neria nods again, not quite sure what Irving intends with these introductions.

"They are recruiting mages to fight for King Cailan's army at Ostagar."

She has about a thousand questions she wants to ask, but Greagoir is still giving her the evil eye and she isn't keen on being hit with a Holy Smite so she merely nods once more.

"Where did all those questions go?" the dwarf asks with a chuckle. Neria's not sure if she should take that as a cue for her to start asking everything she wants to or not, and merely turns her gaze up towards the ceiling.

"You are obviously curious, by all means, ask away. Though, may I suggest you ask them one at a time?" Duncan smiles to her.

A light blush steals across Neria's cheeks as her gaze turns towards the floor.

"Ummm... Who are you fighting?"

"Darkspawn. We fear a Blight is coming, and the darkspawn are amassing to the South in the Korcari Wilds. They may yet form into a horde and threaten to invade north into the valley. We need all the help we can get, especially from the Circle."

Neria nods.

"Makes sense," she murmurs to herself. "Mages are good at killing things. Enchant weapons, help others kill more things. Fireballs, and lightning storms would help to. I wonder if-"

"Neria." Irving says before turning to Duncan. "Duncan, you worry the poor girl with talk of Blights and darkspawn. This is a happy day for her."

"Oh, I'm not -"

"Neria."

Biting her lip, Neria turns her gaze towards the floor, while the two humans talk. The dwarf is staring at her - and its a little uncomfortable. There are _so _many things she wants to ask him. He was introduced as Lord Aeducan. So was he from Orzammar? Or could dwarves be lords in Ferelden? She knew elves couldn't, but were dwarves able to? If not, then why not? What did being a lord mean really? The stories were never exact in what they actually did, and she couldn't really ask a real one either. Daylen Amell and his multiple siblings who were scattered to Circles all over Thedas was nobility from Kirkwall, but mages couldn't own anything really in Thedas, dwarves didn't have any situations like that did they?

"Neria," Irving says her name again and she looks up at the First Enchanter. "The Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi."

"Phylactery?" echoes the dwarf, obviously confused. Dwarves knew next to nothing of magic, seeing as the Fade was something they lacked a connection to.

"Blood is taken from all apprentices when they first come to the Tower and is preserved in special vials. They serve as a means to track them should they get lost."

"My leash, you mean?" she mutters in an undertone, that apparently everyone hears.

"Now now, it's not quite so bad," Irving chastises her gently. Greagoir looks hardly amused by that statement. "Now, I present to you your robes, your staff and a ring bearing the Circle's insignia. Wear them proudly, for you have earned them."

Neria takes the items sullenly. The reverend mothers are going to pitch a _fit _when she 'ruins' yet another set of robes. They are _impossible _to climb in - and they never come in a size that fits her properly.

"Now, would you be so kind as to escort Duncan and Lord Aeducan back to their room, child? I have matters to discuss with Greagoir."

"Yes, First Enchanter." she says in the bored, rote cadence of a child earning her a glare from the templar.

The three of them leave Irving's office quietly, and Neria chews on her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything, and fidgets with her sleeves.

"Well, yes I am a dwarf," the dwarf says conversationally even though the elf girl is trying so hard to refrain from speaking. "From Orzammar. And it's not rude to compliment a man on his beard - though usually it's an indication that one is interested in other activities." he says with a waggle of his eyebrows that is entirely lost on Neria for a moment.

Neria blinks owlishly in confusion before the meaning dawns on her.

"Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhh!Oh," she says blushing furiously. "I hope you weren't offended - or will be - but I'm really not interested in that sort of thing with you. It's not because you're a dwarf, and I'm sure you're a very handsome dwarf and everything - I'm just not interested in sex with men, be they elf, human or dwarf..." she pauses, before almost shrieking.

"Or women!" She declares rather loudly. "I'm not interested in sex with women either! Or anyone really! And it's not like I'm embarrassed about the whole topic, because this is the Tower and there are probably at least seven couples engaging in that sort of activity right now and it is _terribly _awkward when they're in the libraries and makes getting to books entirely awful and I'm sorry, I'm getting off track and terribly sorry, Duncan, Warden, sir, here are your chambers!" she practically squeaks as she's finally led them to the rooms they're staying in.

The Wardens are staring at her like she's some kind of strange animal that is equal parts terrifying as it is amusing. And it has just hit her that she had been talking about sex in the Tower... with Grey Wardens.

"Neria!" Jowan's familiar voice calls her and the little raven-haired elf nearly cries in relief.

"Jowan!" she says, before bowing slightly to the Grey Wardens and a quick 'by your leave' and rushing off towards her best friend in the Tower, thankful for something to get away from that ridiculously awkward conversation.

* * *

**Author Note: **Why yes, I clearly paid more attention during my Mage playthrough of Origins - it was my first.


	6. Chapter 6: Blood and Spiders

**Author Note: **The harrowing behind her, our Elven Mage's day gets a little complicated.

* * *

"Next time Jowan," Neria pouts as she fixes her mussed hair. "You're coming with me."

"There won't _be _a next time, Ner," Jowan tells her for what must be the millionth time, while Lily - who Neria has decided must be alright if she's risking so much for Jowan - helps her pick out the worst of it. "And I said I was sorry!"

"Giant spiders, Jowan," she sniffs, combing out the last few bits of cobwebs and spider guts out of her hair. "Giant. Spiders."

Lily laughs and Jowan goes a little cloudy-eyed at the sound. Maker but he loves that girl, and as she ruffles Neria's now mostly clean hair, he knows that she will make a wonderful mother - though he may be getting ahead of himself there.

"But you're amazing, Neria. You cleared that whole stockroom by yourself." the Chantry sister smiles, and pats the girl's hand, before noting something a little odd.

"What happened here?" she asks, tracing a large, white jagged scar in the centre of the young elf's hand.

It's like a blade had been thrust right through - and healed by a more junior mage, seeing as the elf seems to have no problems with her hand's dexterity, and the scar as the only evidence an injury had occurred.

Neria pulls her hand back at the contact, and tucks it back into the too long sleeves of her robe and Jowan looks away.

Closer inspection of her hands would reveal a myriad of small scars, nicks and cuts. Many of them from the switch of an irate Chantry mother, or sometimes a templar that she had prodded a little too hard, and the punishment was to let the wounds heal without magic - the scars would serve as reminder and reprimand they had hoped. Of course nothing could ever really stop Neria Surana from doing whatever her brilliant, mad brain came up with.

The other ones... Jowan has never been good at healing and were from things that Lily was better of not knowing about life in the Tower.

"Jowan's fault," Neria mutters darkly, her posture defensive as she sits on her hands to prevent further inspection of them. "Tripped and dragged me with him. He's awful clumsy if you haven't noticed."

"I said I was sorry! And you didn't have to follow me that day!" Jowan retorts.

"Still your fault. You're the one who-" Neria stops herself, at the panicked warning look on his face and she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, counting up to five in her head, like she always does when she needs to focus and clear her mind.

"Anyway. It's always Jowan's fault, now. We still need that Rod of Fire from the store room. I've got Senior Enchanter's Leorah signature, and I think I look presentable enough? Because I don't think it matters how many forms I've got signed, but Owain would never give me anything from his stockroom if I had spider guts in my hair. _I _wouldn't give anyone anything remotely dangerous if they had spider guts in their hair. Well, maybe not. I mean in order to get spider guts all over you, you must have killed the spider, so I guess..." she says, dumping every single thought in that head of hers out and all over the room.

Jowan throws his hands up in the air in surrender. "Fine! Fine! I'll go with you!" he tells her. "It's probably best that Lily stays here."

And Neria agrees. She's giving him a very particular look - the fierce one, that she had when she went and got half her face tatooed just to prove a point. It is the look she gets when she is stuck on a topic that she will absolutely _not _let go of.

She needs to talk to Jowan. _Alone_.

Unfortunately for Neria, because this is the Tower, there is no such real thing as _alone_.

"Oh! Um, h-hello!" a familiar voice says, as they are making their way towards the stockroom.

"Hello Cullen," Neria replies, tugging on Jowan's sleeve, probably to make him stop looking so fidgety and suspicious. And he can't help it, he is _nervous_. He's a suspected blood mage and they are going to make him _Tranquil._

"I...uh, am glad!" the curly-haired templar says, looking at Neria's face, and then away and then back again. "Glad to see you're H-Harrowing went smoothly. Th-they picked me as the templar to strike the killing blow if... If you became an abomination. I- It's nothing personal, I swear!" he stammers.

Could Cullen be anymore obvious about this?

"_Someone _likes you," Jowan whispers to her, a highly amused expression on his face. Neria frowns at that. Of course she doesn't get it. It takes at least five statements or unsubtle looks and touches for her to get her to pick up on anything remotely dirty.

"I... Uh, I'm just glad that you're all right. You know." says Cullen, flushing a little.

"Are you all right Cullen?" Neria asks, moving in closer to him, to which the redness of the young templar's face intensifies at least threefold.

"You weren't looking all too well last night. I thought I told you to get checked out by one of the senior healers? Oh but I guess you didn't really hear me. You had me rather well gagged. "

Jowan is trying very hard to not burst out in hysterical laughter, while Cullen's colour only seems to be getting an increasingly brighter shade of red.

"No. I-I'm fine. It's nothing, really." Cullen manages to say.

"All right then. I guess I shouldn't distract you from your duties!" she says cheerily, moving out of the templar's personal space and making to leave, grabbing Jowan's sleeve.

"Oh, you're not distracting!" Cullen says, starting forward, his armour clanking as he moves, before he remembers he's not to leave his post. "I mean, you are, but... Well you're not. I mean, you can talk to me anytime if you want. Uh, yes! Maybe we can talk another time!" he says, almost eagerly.

Neria shrugs.

"Well, maybe we_ could_ go elsewhere and continue our discussion."

"E-Elsewhere?" he laughs nervously. "What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe some other time, we could go somewhere and get to know each other." Neria says and it takes everything Jowan has to not fall over laughing.

He can just imagine what _she's_ thinking, and judging by how scarlet the templar's face has turned, it's absolutely _not _the same thing _he _is.

Neria is probably thinking about how she would _love _to have a real conversation with a templar about the templar Order and the Chantry that didn't end with 'Maker's breath, shut up mage!' or a beating.

"Oh, my goodness. If you're saying...what I think...you're...well...that would be...uh...really inappropriate and I...uh... I couldn't." he laughs nervously, looking away from her face - which is now the very picture of confusion. "I...I should go."

The very moment Cullen disappears in clanking templar armour, while Neria watches in complete and utter confusion, Jowan bursts out laughing.

"Maker's breath! That- That was ..."

"What? What? What was what?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Let's go," Jowan says collecting himself.

He shouldn't be laughing at Cullen's situation - well all right, he can laugh, because the templar had to pick the densest girl in the Tower - as it's not all that different from Jowan's situation. The templar's in love with the one girl everything and everyone says he cannot have.

Cullen is not a bad sort for a templar - devoted to the Chantry and a stickler regarding the rules - but he's not cruel. In fact this massive crush he has on Neria is just a sliver short of being absolutely adorable - him being a templar being the main reason why Jowan is sure that he's never going to point out and explain the templar's feelings to Neria.

The elf is like a little sister to him - his annoying, but brilliant little sister - and a romance with a templar will never end well for a mage.

"Jowan," Neria says her voice, soft and serious like he's only heard a couple of times in their many years together. "What are you going to do when you get out?"

"I've never been as powerful as you Ner," he sighs. "I can live the rest of my life never touching magic _ever _again. And if I've got Lily with me," his expression grows a little dreamy at the thought. "I'll never have to worry about demons so long as I have her by my side."

Neria Surana seems to consider it for a moment, her bright blue eyes staring straight into his, as if she's searching for something in there.

"Good. Just don't mess this up."

-0-

Of course Jowan screws it all up. Well its not entirely his fault. Apparently Irving and Greagoir, despite constantly being at each other's throats actually do work together on occasion, Neria realizes as the three of them come face to face with them as they exit the basement.

She should have known that there would have been some sort of alarm or something in there.

There is a chance, Neria thinks, that she could try and talk the templars down. Make excuses, wild stories. Spotted a giant spider, escaped from the storeroom. Templars hadn't believed her - never mind that none would be able to recall a conversation with her about spiders and no one besides Jowan ever really listened to her anyway. A nice Chantry sister decided to accompany them and _no _of _course she hadn't burned off the lock on the door with a Rod of Fire! _What preposterous thought was that? Really, First Enchanter! The spider did that. Yes. Definitely. Did she mention that it was huge? Giant in fact. Positively _gargantuan. _

But for once - the one time in his life really - Jowan was faster than Surana's mouth and there's a knife in his hand.

"No! I won't let you touch her!" he yells, and stabs his hand.

Neria closes her eyes at that.

"Jowan, _you idiot_." she whispers under her breath, as Jowan makes his most impressive display of magic, knocking down all of the templars and Greagoir and Irving as Lily stares at him in open-mouthed horror.

"Jowan..." the Chantry sister whispers, shaking, terrified to her very bones as she stares at her lover.

"It's not... Lily..." Jowan is pleading.

Neria sighs, as she brings out her own small dagger - her herb dagger to hand and makes a small, surreptitious incision across her palm, barely wincing as blood begins to leak from the wound.

It mists out into the air and Lily _freezes _mid-sentence about how _evil _blood magic is and how she can't go with Jowan now and rejects him breaking his heart.

She had known this would happen. The second Jowan decided to use blood magic his fairy tale would be over. Neria hadn't thought it would happen quite so soon, but she knew that someday, maybe not for years and years, Jowan would use the power in his blood to save Lily from templars or bandits or Maker knows what.

And it wouldn't _matter_ that he did it in her defense!

The word maleficar is a brand he will wear and there is _no one _in Thedas who would stand at a maleficar's side and tell the world they loved them. No one will ever accept Jowan for who and what he is - just like no one will ever accept all of her.

"Run," she tells her long-time friend quietly, quickly healing his hand. "Run while you still can. They don't have your phylactery anymore - you can get out of here."

Jowan gives her this pathetic look - looking much like what she'd imagine a kicked dog might look like or Mr. Wiggums does whenever Anders is thrown into a cell after being dragged back from wherever he'd escaped to.

"Maker damn you Jowan, _go!_" she screams at him, refusing stubbornly to cry as he shoots Lily a last longing look before bolting out of the room.

As soon as he's gone, Neria heals her own hand, scrubbing furiously at her eyes and releases Lily from her spell. She is _not _crying! She is seventeen and not a _baby_ anymore - and she is _not _scared about what is going to happen to her now.

Irving does not know that she had already read all the books on blood magic that he had had removed from the library, that she learned of the oldest power in blood, without the aid of a demon - and besides she is a Harrowed mage so Tranquility is not a legal option.

She is _not _terrified by the idea of Aeonar where the Veil is thin and the demons that have haunted her nightmares will be drawn to her through her magic and... A small sob escapes her throat as she collapses to her knees, her scarred hands clenched into tight fists.

Greagoir is yelling and Irving is holding her by the shoulders asking her if she's alright and everything is _so loud _and she is _not _crying!

Lily accepts her punishment bravely - but Neria cannot help but hate her - as the disgraced Chantry sister offers her condolences on the loss of a friend.

She wants to scream and rage at the unfairness of this all. She has not lost a friend - Jowan is alive and out there and he is going to _live _a long and free life.

Greagoir has finished with Lily and turns to round on her.

"And you! You have made a mockery of this Circle and...agh!" he snarls in frustration. "What are we to do with you?"

"Do whatever you want." she tells the templar, wiping the sweat - _they were not tears! _- from her eyes. "I stand by my decision to help Jowan."

"You helped a blood mage escape!" the Knight Commander roars in her face. "All our prevention measures for naught - because of you!"

It is not like she does not understand Greagoir's position - mages are dangerous, maleficar more so - but he does not know _Jowan_. Never tried to either. Each and everyone of them was 'just another mage' to him.

Irving is looking at her with a deep sorrow in his eyes and Neria can't find it in her to truly hate the old man. She understands the First Enchanter's position too. He is powerless in his own way - unable to help everyone - but he could try. He could actually try to get to know each and every apprentice and learn just a little about them , not just those with 'potential'.

Neria understands both of their reasonings. She hates them both.

Greagoir's eyes are bright and burning with all the righteous fury of Andraste's pyre and Neria knows for sure that her punishment will be death.

She would have liked to live a little longer - seventeen was really not enough time to do much of anything, especially locked up in the Tower like this.

And then maybe the Maker smiled on her for the first time in Neria Surana's young life, as the dark-skinned human man comes from wherever he had been moments prior, speaking words of salvation.

"Duncan," Irving says. "This mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a lack of regard for the Circle's rules."

"His name is _Jowan_. He's my _friend. _He's been my friend for _fourteen years_." Neria says darkly, glaring at the floor.

The Grey Warden smiles a little at that.

"It is a rare person who will risk all for a friend in need. I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage."

"No! I refuse to let this go unpunished!" Greagoir roars, his arm slicing the air as if marking this to be the end of the conversation.

"You can't do that," Neria murmurs in realization. "The Grey Warden's Right of Conscription can overrule even a King's decision. It was in a book - an old one, falling apart, but it holds. If the Grey Wardens will have me, I'll go - beats getting my head chopped off, though I suppose that could have happened last night. And...and I've probably just increased my chances of being eaten by darkspawn by a hundred fold, haven't I?"

Her voice growing stronger as she speaks before dropping off as the fact that she may actually be able to leave the Circle forever hits her. Maybe she could go to Antiva one day.

"The girl is correct," Duncan says. "I take this mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for her actions."

Greagoir is furious, but Irving recognizes a lost battle when he sees one.

The two old men take their leave, Greagoir still fuming and Neria is alone with the Grey Warden.

"Thank you," she says softly staring at her bare, blood splattered feet. "I'll follow you forever, Duncan - Warden - sir." she stammers, flushing to the tips of her ears as she speaks.

"Well, not forever - since that's impossible. And with a potential Blight happening I would suppose that the chances of me surviving all that long are rather small, but I'll follow your orders and do whatever you need me to do. I'm a good healer, so if you ever get hurt just tell me and I'll drop everything - well almost everything, I'm not much help if I crush my own feet - to help. And I'm also very good at killing people - theoretically! I've never actually killed anybody - but I did kill spiders. Giant spiders. Not the little ones that you can squish with a finger. Big ones. Really big ones - bigger than me! Not that I'm all that big compared to you! Not that I'm calling you fat, because you aren't and -"

"Neria?" Duncan interrupts her with a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look up at him and he is smiling gently at her. "You don't need to say anything more."

The elven mage merely nods silently as the human man lets go of her shoulder and turns to leave.

She follows him and Lord Aeducan - who was waiting for them at the docks - to the world outside of the Tower and with the sun on her face for the first time she can truly remember, she decides that she'll follow Duncan to the end of the world for bringing her out here.

* * *

**Author Note: **And there's the end of our Mage Origin. Next it's off to Highever and the Human Noble who lives there.


	7. Chapter 7: A Human Noble

_**Author**_** note:** To the one reviewer who had hoped for a female human noble, I apologize, but our Human Noble, is in fact a man._  
_

The setting moves from Kinloch Hold to Highever where Teyrn Cousland and his kin dwell.

* * *

_"Brave of you sir, to so openly cast an envious eye towards me and mine. I suggest you look elsewhere, lest I consider removing your sight in a more permanent fashion."_

Aedan Cousland is, above all things - a good man. He is a hardworking, diligent and well-mannered young man who only seeks to do his father proud. At twenty-two years of age, Aedan is every noble-maiden's dream come true. Young, handsome, polite, strong, and most importantly- the _unmarried _second son of Teyrn Cousland_- _Aedan Cousland is Thedas's most eligible bachelor, seeing as Nathaniel Howe is being squired out in Kirkwall.

The darkspawn threat looms ever closer, and word has been sent for an army to assemble at the ruins of Ostagar.

"Oh, I'm sorry pup, I didn't see you there," Bryce Cousland smiles at his youngest as he enters the room. "Howe, you remember my youngest, Aedan?"

"I see he's grown into a fine young man. Good to see you again, lad." Howe greets him with a smile.

"It's good to see you again Arl Howe," Aedan bows in respect to his father's long time friend.

It is truly a pity that Howe has come alone and that Nathaniel is in the Marches and Thomas is somewhere in Amaranthine, drinking himself into a stupor no doubt. He would have jumped at the chance of challenging one of the Howe boys to a spar - Nathaniel being the preferred choice. Thomas was near hopeless in a fight.

"Delilah asked after you, perhaps I should bring her next time."

"It would be good to see Delilah again, it's been some years since I've seen her," Aedan responds politely, though if the word _marriage _starts getting thrown about, he is going to hit someone. Preferably Fergus.

Some of what Aedan is feeling must be showing on his face, as his father bursts out into chuckles.

"See what I have to deal with Howe? My little boy's _still _not past that 'girl's are icky' stage, Maker bless his heart."

"Father!" Aedan flushes, mortified while Arl Howe gives a little chuckle. And he does _not _still believe that girls carry some strange, unidentifiable disease that made them inherently abhorrent. He simply has no intention of getting married any time soon.

"At any rate pup, I called you for a reason. While your brother and I are away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

Aedan straightens up a bit at that. This is the first, great responsibility his father has ever given him - he will be responsible for the safety of all the people who call Highever home. It is his duty to protect and rule the people in his father's absence.

"I'll do my best, Father." he says firmly.

Bryce's aging face crinkles at the corners as he smiles at his youngest.

"There's a good lad. Now, we have some guests that you should meet as well," the Teyrn turns to one of the men-at-arms by the door. "Please, show Duncan and his companions in."

There is the sound of clanking armour, and the sound of many foot steps, as well as a young girl's voice speaking at an almost alarming pace.

"This _is _a castle isn't it, Duran?" the girl is saying, her voice full of wonder and energy.

"It's rather small... Though I suppose dwarven castles must be much smaller - in height, of course, seeing as you're all so short. I'm sorry! I hope I didn't offend you - see Edward, that's one of the Senior Enchanters in the Tower, he's an elf - like me -and he's _ever _so sensitive about his height. Can't even mention the _word _'small' in his hearing without him exploding into a rage. You're not going to explode into a rage are you? Because if you are, would you mind putting your axe somewhere far away so nobody gets hurt? Though if you were to fly into a rage, you wouldn't really be thinking about-"

"Surana?" a man's gruff voice interrupts.

"Sorry, yes?"

"Shut up."

Teyrn Cousland's four guests enter the room at that point and Aedan sees the source of the chatter. A pretty young elf with a tattoo on her face, wearing - an interesting set of garb, that look a little like the Circle of Magi's robes, except for how short they are - her modesty only preserved by the tight black leggings she wears- and how they bare her shoulders, as well as the wide detached sleeves that are much too long for her.

Next to her is a red-headed lady dwarf in a rough travelling cloak that covers much of her body, though the creak of leather armour and her stance, denote her as a fighter. The dwarf has a decidedly unpleasant look to her as she seems to have a permanent scowl firmly attached to her face. The dark tattoo on her face only adds to her meanness, as she stalks through the halls. She carries herself lightly despite her stocky build and the furtive gleam to her eyes puts Aedan in the mind of a wary animal... or a thief.

The owner of the second voice is a very solidly built dwarf in rusty and dented plate armour, with dark blonde hair and a magnificent beard. The dwarf holds himself proudly and - pardon the expression - seems to dwarf everyone else in the room with sheer presence. Aedan finds himself a little overwhelmed with the man's intensity - however he seems to defer to the only human of the party.

Their leader, the man whom Aedan's father smiles at and greets like an old friend is a tall man, who's dark skin lends credence to the man being of Rivaini heritage.

"It is an honour to be a guest within your hall Teyrn Cousland," the man named Duncan declares calmly.

"Your Lordship," Howe says, looking rather surprised. "You didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present."

Aedan turns to stare at the guests. Grey Wardens? He looks at the elf who is fidgeting nigh uncontrollably. _Really?_

"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced, is there a problem?"

"I'm n-" the elf opens her mouth to speak when she is unceremoniously shushed by both dwarves in unison with a "Shut up Surana."

"Of course not," Howe laughs, admirably ignoring the non-humans in the room. "But a guest of his stature demands certain protocol, I am...at a disadvantage."

"Oh there's -" The elf starts again, when Duncan merely turns his head towards the girl, who grows silent immediately.

"My apologies, Surana is easily excited," the Grey Warden says, his voice warm and strangely comforting. "If I may present to you my companions, Lord Duran Aeducan of Orzammar."

The dwarf bows slightly in acknowledgment.

"Atrast vala, Teyrn Cousland. Stone met and blessings upon your House." The dwarf states agreeably, though it sounds more like a practiced and near mindless response.

The dwarf's expression is easily identified as one who could care less about the formalities he is participating in.

"Bellara Brosca of Dust Town."

The red-headed dwarf gives them all a once over, her eyes lingering on Howe for a moment longer before dismissing them all entirely.

"That's Brosca to you n-" a sharp look from Duncan has her hastily correcting whatever words were about to leave her mouth. "To you surfacers."

"And this is Neria Surana, of the Circle of Magi."

The introduction has many of the guards within the room doing double takes, one even backing up against the wall.

The girl looks about the room at the sudden change in atmosphere and glances between Duncan and Teyrn Cousland wide-eyed, like a frightened animal.

"H-Hello? Nice to meet you?" she greets them nervously.

Aedan takes it upon himself to reassure the mage with a smile.

Well _that_ certainly explains why she is a Warden as she is obviously no fighter, he thinks.

"We are honoured to have Grey Wardens beneath our roof," he smiles his politician's smile. "If I may, sir Warden, what brings you to Highever?"

"Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the South. I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore," Bryce Cousland answers for the Warden.

Duncan smiles at the statement, but his gaze has yet to leave Aedan's face.

"If I might be so bold, I might suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate," the dark-skinned man says calmly.

"Well, now that's a bit of a surprise!" the mage says to herself, though she seems unaware that others can hear her.

"He's a little different from the others so far. Being human and not a dwarf or an elf. Well, there is that, but I mean he's a little _different, _isn't he? Well from me and Brosca. Of course, he is a man...and human, but I mean Brosca's a criminal, and I'm a-eek!" the girl squeaks in surprise as both dwarves grab a hold of her arms and begin dragging her off towards the nearest door.

"Sorry Duncan, I think we'll head outside for a second," Aeducan says cheerily, the words '_ I have no idea what possessed you to make _this _a Warden' _plainly written on his face - or is it on Aedan's? - based on the chuckle, poorly disguised as a cough by the human Warden.

"Honour though, that may be," Aedan's father says, interposing himself bodily between Aedan and the Grey Warden - odd behaviour, especially on behalf of his father.

Aedan's quite sure that the last time this happened, he was thirteen and in a great deal of trouble with his mother for breaking one of her prized vases. "This is one of my sons you're talking about."

Perhaps when he was a lot younger, and his head had been filled with stories of Grey Wardens, swooping down on darkspawn from the backs of griffins, he would have jumped at the chance. Primarily for the chance to ride a griffin. However griffins were now extinct and he is a grown man with responsibilities and duties to his father and the people of Highever. Though perhaps his answer would have been different the Wardens still had griffins...

"My apologies, Sir Duncan, but my duties lie with Highever. I have no intention of becoming a Warden," Aedan says politely, banishing all thoughts of griffins from his mind.

Maker he wasn't a child anymore - reading stories with Oren must have put griffins on his brain.

"Have no fear," the Rivaini reassures his father. "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I have no intention of forcing the issue."

A few eyebrows in the room go up at the 'good recruits', as the elf mageling can still be heard vocally protesting her treatment quite clearly outside:

_"I said that I am acting perfectly normal for a surfacer and - Maker is that a horse? Where are its fangs?!"_

An awkward silence fills the room, while everyone has these slight, indulgent smiles for the Grey Warden commander who merely sighs.

"Pup," Father says, "I need you to go and fetch your brother. He needs to leave soon."

Aedan nods as he heads out of the hall he knows a dismissal when he hears one - and he does want to speak with his brother before he heads out.

As he rounds a corner, a familiar head of red-hair and the clank of steel draws him to a halt.

"There you are," Ser Gilmore says, a smile on his face. "Your mother told me the Teyrn had summoned you."

Aedan feels something akin to dread, pool in his stomach.

"Ser Gilmore. Good to see you. Why, exactly did you need me?" he asks, dreading the answer.

Ser Gilmore gives a small chuckle at that.

"I fear your hound has the kitchens in a bit of an uproar."

_Again?_ He takes great pains to not let his exasperation show on his face.

"Maker, that dog some days..." he sighs. Really, Winter was such a handful most days, but Aedan would not have his dog any other way.

Smarter than most men by half, the dog was wasted at home. Aedan had been making an effort to keep his hound occupied with things other than raiding the larder, but with the King's call to arms against the darkspawn, Teyrn Highever was in a bit of an uproar. It seems his mabari was of a mind to add to it.

-0-

While Aedan Cousland is a gentleman at heart and fits the princely image of a young lord, it is another story entirely when the young man is in the heat of battle. He fights with the brute strength and ferociousness of a mabari. He is as good a dancer on the ballroom floor as he is on the battlefield - though one would be hard-pressed to call the way he cleaves a man in two, 'dancing'.

For all his civility and poise at a formal party, Aedan _craves _the battlefield, the occasional bouts he has with the soldiers and Ser Gilmore are quite often the highlights of his day - or week, depending on how bogged down he is by paperwork and his other duties.

He twirls the short sword in his hand once before stabbing it deep into the neck of the rodent of unusual size that tries to run past him to the safety of its burrow.

His mother has forbidden from carrying the claymores he prefers using around the castle. Not with Oren wanting to copy him in almost everything he does. He changes, his mother tells him disapprovingly, whenever he takes hold of one of the larger blades. His father merely laughs about how his Pup is growing fangs.

He sighs as he watches his mabari, Winter, tear into the last of them and Ser Gilmore sheathes his sword.

"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell!" Ser Gilmore says.

And it really does sound like the beginning to every great epic adventure that had ever been read to him as a child. In fact the story that Aedan had last read Oren had started off something like this- with far less cursing.

Aedan crouches down to give Winter a very well deserved ear scratch.

"You did good Winter, defending the larder, though where on earth did these monsters come from?"

"They look like the type you'd find in the Korcari Wilds," the knight remarks. "Best not tell Nan."

Aedan nods. There's no need to frighten the old woman, she's getting on in years and too much of a shock would not be good for those old bones.

The giant rats in the larder dealt with and Nan pacified, Aedan and Winter set off from the kitchens to find Fergus.

As he rounds another corner of the castle, he comes across his mother speaking with more guests of Highever.

Introductions all around and the resurrection of a particular incident that Aedan would rather forget.

Lady Landra had been impressively inebriated and shamelessly flirted with Aedan, much to Fergus' hilarity and her son Dairren's horror. Aedan had been on the verge of physically flinging the woman off of him and fleeing the salon before he stabbed someone, were it not for the timely intervention of a wine-bearing servant.

Apparently the Cousland charm as Fergus teasingly calls it, works through reputation alone too, as Ilona, Lady Landra's elven handmaiden also appears to have become infatuated with Aedan, to which her mistress teases her shamelessly.

"Mother, may I please be excused? I'm dreadfully sorry Lady Landra, but as much as I would love to remain in you and your son's fine company, the Teyrn has tasked me with an important duty."

The look in his mother's eyes tells him that she can see right through him, but nods anyway.

"Yes, thank you Aedan."

Aedan smiles for his mother in gratitude before whistling for Winter to follow him.

"Maker's breath, Winter. If I have to hear one more word about how women are making googily eyes at me, I am going to need to _stab _something." he grumbles darkly to his hound who merely barks in response.

It was not like what some of House Cousland's detractors said, that the youngest son was not interested in the fairer sex. Because he_ was_ interested. A little. He simply liked killing things more than he did flirting with women. He also had yet to meet a woman who was not a simpering idiot, nor one who fell to pieces the moment he smiled at her. Well, there was one woman who was not his mother, nor four times his age that fit that criteria, he thought as he opened the door to Fergus's rooms to hear little Oren's adorable young voice.

"Will you bring me back a sward Papa?" the boy asks as he mispronounces a few of his words.

"That's sword, Oren," Fergus corrects his son, crouching down to meet his boy's eyes. "And I'll get you the mightiest one I can find. I promise."

"Will it be bigger than Uncle Aedan's?" the little boy asks, to which Fergus suppresses a chuckle.

"Of course!" Aedan's older brother declares. "Only the best for my boy! I'll be back before you know it."

"I wish victory was indeed so certain," the woman in the room - the one woman that Aedan respected just as much as his own mother - Oriana says, tears in her eyes. "My heart is full of...disquiet."

"Don't frighten the boy, love. I only speak the truth. And here's my little brother, to see me off!"

Fergus smiles as he looks over towards the door Aedan is leaning in. "Now dry your eyes love, and wish me well."

Aedan lets a teasing smile grace his features.

"Oh, should I leave you two lovebirds alone then? Oren would probably love to meet the Grey Wardens in the Castle."

"No, stay Aedan," Fergus says, whereas Oren's face has lit up at the idea of meeting a real live Grey Warden. "And Grey Wardens in the Castle?"

"Yes. I believe they're heading to Ostagar on the morrow with Father," he says. "Which brings me to my original reason for coming here. Father wants you to leave without him. The Arl's men have yet to arrive."

"So they _are _late," Fergus grumbles. "You'd think they were walking backwards! Ah, I'd best be off then."

"I wish I could go with you," Aedan sighs wistfully. As good as the second son of Teyrn Cousland is at politics and behaving himself, he does not particularly enjoy it.

"It's too bad," Fergus shrugs. "I could have used you at my side. But Mother put her foot down...Mummy's boy." he teases, making his younger brother flush a little. There was no shame in loving and admiring a woman like Eleanor Cousland - wanting to keep her happy was only natural.

Aedan is far too old at twenty-two to retort with a yell or even a kick to his brother's shins. He merely shoots his brother a meaningful glare. It was just last week that Aedan had used his older brother as a cleaning rag on the training ground floor - he hoped Fergus would remember that.

"Well, off we go then. I'll see you soon my love." Fergus tells Oriana, gripping her hand tightly and staring lovingly into his wife's eyes as Bryce Cousland's voice comes in from the door.

"I would hope dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave."

"Be safe, my son. I will pray for your safety every day." says Mother, coming in to put a hand on her eldest's cheek, tracing the lines of his face as if to commit them to memory in her palm.

"Fergus will be fine," Aedan tells his mother reassuringly, as Winter barks his agreement. "Though maybe after our last duel, he may need some of those prayers." he teases, letting the sting of being thoroughly trounced by his baby brother on the training field reassert itself.

"Haha, very funny little brother," Fergus mock glares at him, before turning to his mother. "I keep telling you, no darkspawn will best me!"

It is a warm and comfortable feeling that spreads throughout Aedan's body as he listens to his family's voices speak around him. His laughter at Fergus's declaration for someone to 'bring on the ale and wenches!' is abruptly cut short when little Oren asks about just exactly _what _is a wench? And Aedan has to applaud Father on his mostly accurate, but child-friendly description of a wench.

"Oren," Aedan says brightly, hoping to distract the boy from the probable scolding Oriana is about to give his brother for saying such things in front of his son. "How about we go see the Grey Wardens?"

"Grey Wardens! Can I?" the boy asks, his face lighting up. "Do they have griffins?"

"Well, we'll have to ask them then, won't we?"

Aedan obtains permission easily enough from Oriana, who gives him the slightest of nods before Aedan, his mabari and his favouritest nephew _ever_ set about to find the Wardens.

The human, elf and dwarves are in the practice yard, Ser Gilmore watching as Duncan and Lord Aeducan spar, while Brosca insults them both.

"You're slower than a bronto-loving whore Aeducan! Hit him already! And Duncan! A three-day old nug could hit harder than that! You're a Warden! Not some too fat-for his britches Merchant!"

Aedan promptly covers Oren's ears for most of the red-headed dwarf's continued insults until the end of the spar, which has the dwarf flat on his back, a sword at his throat.

Duncan was an impressive man - Aedan remarks to himself. Where the dwarf is sweating and breathing heavily, Duncan's brow remains dry and his breath light.

"My thanks, Commander," the dwarf says as the dark-skinned man pulls him to his feet.

The mage waves her hand and a blue light swirls around the dwarf - and Aedan swears the dwarf's breathing grows lighter and his movements less stiff.

"My lords!" Ser Gilmore says approaching the two Cousland men, "What brings you here?"

"There' re Grey Wordens, Ser Gilmore!" Oren exclaims excitedly. "Did they bring any griffins?"

Before Ser Gilmore can gently break the information that his parents and uncle and grandparents have all not had the heart to tell the boy - that griffins had been extinct for centuries - Thedas's greatest distraction took notice of them.

"Oh, hello!" the elf says as she turns around, and her eyes grow wide and an enormous smile breaks out onto her face.

"Is that a _dog_?!" she asks, and Aedan takes a slight step back. Maker but that girl was _fast_. It seems like just a few seconds ago she was tending to her injured comrade's wounds and then she was not two feet away from him.

"No he's a mabari isn't he?" the easily excitable elf exclaims, not waiting for an answer. "I've read books about them. Smarter than most people! And he's so big and handsome too!"

Winter barks in complete solidarity with the elf's assessment of his magnificence.

"Can I pet him? Sorry, please may I pet him?" the elf asks, looking up at Aedan with those great big blue eyes. Aedan is at a bit of a loss what with being hit with the sheer speed with which the mage speaks.

"Please, let her," the dwarf, Lord Aeducan says, coming over, wiping sweat from his brow as he grins good-naturedly. "This way we'll all have some peace and quiet for a few seconds."

"If Winter agrees, then by all means. Else I would not recommend trying."

"Oh I'm so sorry, he understands me, doesn't he? So I suppose I should be asking him for his permission. Right!", the young elf says at a break-neck pace before she asks Winter most solemnly: "Ser Mabari, may I have the honour of scratching your ears?"

The mabari, obviously pleased to be addressed with the respect one such as himself was due, drew himself up regally and barked his assent, tail wagging furiously as the elf steps forward to give him a well-deserved ear-scratch after a job well done.

"And hello to you, young lord," the dwarf Warden says to Oren, who is staring at this short, bearded man in metal plate who is barely taller than him.

"Are you a Grey Warden?" the boy asks, his eyes wide.

"Well, what do you think lad?" Aeducan asks the boy, smiling kindly.

"Are you?"

"I am," Duncan says as he approaches Aedan Cousland, his face kind. "It is good to see you again, Lord Cousland, and I believe we have not been introduced, young sir." he says as he looks at Oren.

"Did you bring any griffins?" Oren asks immediately, while Aedan gives the boy a gentle reprimanding smack.

"Manners, Oren!" he chides the boy, a smile on his face. "Ser Duncan, this is my elder brother's son Oren, my nephew."

"Did you bring any griffins?" Oren repeats and Aedan rolls his eyes at his nephew's one-track mind.

The dwarf called Brosca takes this as a cue to insert herself into the conversation.

"No, but we brought a nug-shit insane mage with us."

The mean-faced tattooed dwarf jerked a thumb at said 'nug-shit insane mage' who was currently holding a very one-sided conversation with Winter that no one had a hope of being able to follow.

"A mage?" Ser Gilmore says, his voice taking on a slightly worried hint. Somehow, Aedan doubted that this girl was going to turn into an abomination and kill them all.

"Can she do magic?" Oren asks, which draws a snort from the dwarven rogue.

"Can she? Paragon's tits! If she couldn't I would have slit her throat three weeks ago."

Aedan makes a loud cough at that before turning to Duncan.

"Ser Duncan, if I may be so bold, would you grant me the honour of crossing blades with a Warden?" he asks. "I wish to test my mastery of the martial arts."

The answering smile he receives just about brightens his day and with how excited Oren is about watching a _'real sward fight!',_ Aedan can ignore this awful thought that something terrible is going to happen.

* * *

**Author Note:** And like in any true tale, something terrible _does _befall Castle Cousland...


	8. Chapter 8: A Grudge is Born

**Author Note: **Tragedy befalls the Teyrn's family and deep seated grudge is born.

* * *

The rest of the day passes quickly and Fergus leaves Castle Cousland with the bulk of Highever's soldiers, accompanied by the two dwarves for a while. Duncan has sent them on to Denerim on 'Grey Warden business'.

After being thoroughly trounced in a series of duels against the Warden Duncan, Aedan bids everyone a good night, minutes after the evening meal. Everything is all well and good in the Teyrn's castle until Aedan is roused from his sleep in the middle of the night by the sound of Winter barking angrily at the door.

"Winter? What is it?" he groans, as he lifts his aching body out of bed. Maker but Duncan hit _hard_ and while the mage had healed every bump and bruise the Warden had given him, he was _tired_.

The mabari merely continues to snarl and growl at the door, and there's a terrible feeling in Aedan's spine as he decides to put on the light mail he keeps in his room over his clothes. Aedan Cousland has always trusted this feeling - its mostly responsible for how good he is at killing people.

He has just brought his short sword and pulled the ornamental shield mounted on the wall above his bed to hand when his bedroom door bursts open and a panicked servant rushes in screaming.

"My lord! Help me!" the man, Petyr one of the stable-hands, Aedan recognizes him. "The castle is under attack!"

There's the swooshing sound of an arrow and the man Aedan has known for a good part of his life falls to the floor, lifeless, an arrow buried deep in his back.

The young Lord Cousland leaps into action, stepping over the body and bringing the shield up to block the next arrow and sword blow from these night-time attackers. Winter streaks forward, knocking down the archer and tearing the screaming man's throat out while Aedan knocks the second man to the ground, ramming his sword into his throat, to much the same effect.

The ensuing spray of blood leaves Aedan looking quite similar to his mabari, their faces splattered with blood. Both man and dog scan the hall quickly - there are the sounds of fighting coming from all directions. Whoever is attacking has _impeccable _timing. With the King calling for an assembly of Ferelden's armies at Ostagar, Castle Cousland is at its weakest in decades.

The sheer audacity of the move implies an assassination attempt - however there are far, far too many men to justify them being a mere 'distraction'.

His eyes grow wide with shock and horror as he recognizes the sigil emblazoned upon the dead man's shield.

A grizzly bear, on a yellow and white shield.

And the very same mark on the archer's armour. Aedan's blood runs cold. A Howe - or someone pretending to be one. He does not want to consider what it could possibly mean if this attack _is _being perpetrated by Rendon Howe - which is far too likely to sit comfortably with Aedan. For one it is _sloppy_, as the men are using marked armour, and if they are all aiming for the Teyrn...

"Darling!" his mother's voice cries out to him, and Aedan turns to see his mother dressed in leather armour, a bow and quiver on her back. "I heard fighting outside and I feared the worst!" she exclaims, running her hands over his face, smearing the blood that is all over his face.

"Are you all right, Aedan?"

"I'm fine, Mother, what happened?" he reassures her, clasping her hands to his chest. Thank the Maker she is all right. Rattled and worried out of her mind, but she is safe.

"A scream woke me up and there were men in the hall so I barred the door. Did you see their shields?"

"Yes Mother, I did," he says kicking the one that had fallen to the floor. "The Howe family sigil." he says. "Either the Howes have betrayed us or someone wants us to think they did."

"Well whoever they are, I'm going to slit their throats myself!" his mother declares angrily, before her expression takes on a look of worry. "Have you seen your father? He never came to bed."

Aedan's stomach drops suddenly, and he fights the near overwhelming nausea that has settled in his gut. His father had spoken about wishing to speak with Arl Howe some time after the evening meal as Aedan retired for the day. He hadn't stayed long enough to hear the results of that conversation but if Howe _was _behind this nightmare then-

"I'll find him," he tells his mother firmly, refusing to think more on it. His father is _alive_. Bryce Cousland survived the Orlesians, he will survive this night."You stay here and-"

Eleanor Cousland silences her son with an icy look.

"I am no Orlesian wallflower, Aedan!" she reprimands him sharply, as he flinches at the steel in her voice. She hasn't used that tone with him since he was seven, and had gotten caught filching a pie - on Fergus's direction. He'd almost forgotten how Eleanor Cousland was a fighter, and her lady-like demeanour was very much silk hiding two feet of steel.

"Give me a sword and I'll use it. Come along then!" she snaps her fingers at him imperiously.

"Yes mother." he gets out quickly as he rapidly falls into step behind her.

-0-

Their first thought is for Oriana and her son. Unlike Aedan and his mother, neither of them are fighters. Oren, Maker bless his little heart, wished desperately to be like both his Papa and Uncle, but he was still just a little boy who could not pronounce the word 'sword' nor hope to be able to lift one just yet.

They head directly for Fergus's chambers through the ruined halls, something is burning somewhere in the Castle and Aedan is glad that their home is mostly made of stone.

He breathes a quiet sigh of relief as Fergus's door comes into view. The door is closed and Maker, he prays. _Let them be safe_.

"Oriana! Are you all right?!" he yells as he slams the door open and -

"No," Aedan gets out in the tiniest of whispers as he sees the blood on the floor. He does not want to but his eyes unconsciously follow the trail up until he sees a small, pale hand and only then does he closes his eyes against the tears.

"No!" His mother lets out a grief-stricken wail. "My little Oren!" she cries as she rushes forward to cradle the small, pale body on the floor in her arms. "What manner of fiend slaughters innocents?!"

Aedan breathes deeply, his throat tight as he opens his eyes. Oriana lies not far from her son - lifeless, her eyes wide in unspeakable shock and horror.

"They're not taking hostages," he says his voice thick with grief, and he tries to swallow it down as he thinks. This is no assassination. This is a slaughter. "They mean to kill all of us..."

He puts a hand on his mother's shoulder as she cries over her grandson's cold, dead body.

"Mother. Don't look. We need to go," he says not wanting to imagine the grief Fergus will feel when he learns of what happened here. The rage that is probably soon to follow will probably be enough to eclipse what Aedan is feeling right at this moment - but while his brother may have more right to hate whoever is responsible, Aedan is not inclined to share. Whoever is responsible will _die _by _his_ sword.

He takes his rage out on each and every soldier they come across - all of them bearing the Howe crest on their shields. The politician's side of his brain notes how precise each and every one of them are, and the likelihood of them being true Howes rises with each slaughtered man. The craftsmanship is too good to be mere forgeries - the possibility that Howe's men, late as they were, were ambushed and all of their gear stolen is ludicrously small and Aedan Cousland is not about to forget this treachery.

He pulls a greatsword off of one of the corpses - his mother voicing no complaint as he proceeds to use it to devastating effect on the soldiers in front of him. His mother was right about him - he realizes- as he cleaves a lightly armoured man in twain.

He changes when he holds a two-handed blade. His swings become stronger, and he fights with a reckless abandon, charging archers and slamming himself bodily into knights using anything he can to bring the bastard down, chivalry and honour dispensed with. He is hardly a gentleman with a greatsword in hand, punching the life out of a man before using an arrow to stab him in the throat - _just _to be sure.

The guest rooms, where Lady Landra, her son Dairren and her handmaiden Ilona were staying for the night are soaked in blood - his mother's grief surfaces again as she laments her friend's fate, but there is _no time_ and he needs her to keep moving. Grieving can come after every last Howe is dead. Now is the time for blood to run and for these bastards to scream their last on the end of his sword.

Outside, the sounds of fighting and screaming are loud. Howe's men have overtaken the castle it seems.

"We need to get to the front gates," his mother says as they rush through the outdoor halls. "That's where your father must be!"

"Let's go," Aedan says. "We'll use the servant's exit in the larder to escape."

His mother nods before a thought takes her.

"The Cousland family blade!" she exclaims. "That must not fall into Howe's treacherous hands! It should be used to sever his head!"

Aedan runs through the castle layout in his mind. The small detour it would take to reach the treasury is not a long one - and the idea of losing the family treasure does not appeal to Aedan at all. Of equal importance is the armoury and the good armour and weapons within. He is still only clad in light mail - and he is sure there would be an extra suit of armour lying around there.

Howe's men are everywhere, and as less skilled Aedan is with sword and shield, he is no less deadly with the Cousland arms in hand. It is a little poetic, he thinks. Slaying invaders with the Cousland Family blade - except this time they're Howes, and not Orlesians.

Many people will die this night, Aedan blinks through unshed tears as he and his mother leave the front gates and Ser Gilmore - that brave, stubborn, loyal knight - to his death. A great many good people have died this night, and Aedan intends to have them all avenged.

He has no idea how many of Howe's men he, his hound and mother fell, nor does he care - for _they _are _not enough_.

Aedan grows reckless and acts rashly in his fury, and his mother and himself find themselves set upon on all sides by Howe's men. His mother deals swift and accurate death with each arrow, but her quiver runs low as Aedan's strength flags with each swing. Winter snarls at their enemy, but the mabari, while still in a much better state than Aedan and his mother, is exhausted.

A shiver runs up his spine as Aedan smashes in a Howe soldier's face. The air has taken on a sweet taste that leaves an odd metallic tang on his tongue and every hair on his body rises at the _unnatural-ness _of it all.

He moves entirely on instinct, grabbing hold of his mother and knocking her to the ground, his hound following him as a burst of flame erupts from thin air, the searing heat burning his lungs as it passes inches above him. The roar of magic vanishes as quickly as it came and the sudden coolness of the air on his back urges him to bring his head up, gasping for air as he sees the soldiers who had had him and his mother surrounded collapse to the floor, blackened and unidentifiable corpses.

"Thank the Maker, you're all right!" the elven mage cries in relief, as she collapses to her knees in front of them, sparks jumping from her fingers as they take on a pale blue glow, as she presses her hands to their faces.

Aedan feels a warm, tingling sensation as every cut and bruise seals itself up, and every ache and pain chased away - he feels stronger than ever, the tiredness miracle-d away.

"Why did Duran and Brosca have to leave for Denerim this afternoon?" the mage babbles as she uses her staff for support and pulls herself to her feet, as they all stand. "I don't have a Maker-damned clue as to what I'm doing on a battlefield! Andraste's blazing skirts! I lost Duncan somewhere in all the fighting and..."

"We need to get to the larder, hurry!" Aedan interrupts the mage, as he helps his mother up. "There's an exit and my father needs help!"

The mage wipes moisture away from her eyes and nods silently. The elf is exhausted and overwhelmed - but Aedan has no time to play the gentleman as they rush towards the kitchens. Ser Gilmore had said that his father had been gravely injured and Aedan finds himself fearing the worst as he pushes open the door, urging his mother, the mage and Winter in.

Bryce Cousland is in the larder, lying in a pool of his own blood, as the four of them rush in.

"Bryce!" his mother cries out as she rushes towards her husband's side.

"I was...wondering," Aedan's father gasps out, his voice thick with pain as he clutches his side. And as terrible of a state the Teyrn appears to be, there is no sweeter sound than that voice to Aedan at that moment. "When you'd both... Get here."

The mage upon seeing how badly his father is injured, drops her staff and runs over, her bare feet splashing in the blood and a blue glow begins to surround both her and the injured man on the floor as she crouches before the man, pouring magic into his wounds.

"Maker's blood, what's happening?! You're bleeding!"

"Working on that," the Warden mage says before resuming her rapid whispering as she works, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Four main puncture wounds- multiple superficial lacerations to the skin. Skull and spine intact - no cerebral bleeds, thank the Maker for small mercies...Where is all the blood coming from?! Punctured bowel, significant damage to liver - extensive hemorrhage in and from abdominal cavity... Heart rate dropping..."

"Arl's men," he tells them, surprisingly fierce. "Found me first... Almost, did me in right there."

"Fluid in lungs. Two ribs cracked. One shattered..."

"Howe will _pay for this!" _Aedan snarls, before looking about the room. "We need to get you out of here."

"NO! You can't move him! Not in this state!" the mage practically shrieks, her voice high and shaky. "If you try and carry him, his innards will _literally _come falling out of him!"

"Then _fix them!" _Aedan shouts.

"I'm _trying_!" the young elf girl cries, tears streaming from her eyes, as she returns them to her glowing hands that she's passing centimetres over his father's body. "Damn it all! Why won't it _stop_?"

"Someone...must tell Fergus what has happened..." his father breathes angrily.

"And take_** vengeance." **_There is no place for politics or strongly worded letters for something like this. The servants are dead. The Cousland knights are dead. Ser Gilmore is dead. Oriana is dead. Oren is _dead _and the only way any of this can have some semblance of a happy ending is if every Howe head is mounted on a pike on the walls of Amaranthine.

"Yes. Vengeance." he agrees, coughing wildly, blood and spittle flying everywhere.

"Hold him still!" the mage sobs, the light from her hands growing more intense. "You can't move, ser! You'll tear them all open again!"

"Bryce, the servant's exit is right here. We can flee together!" Aedan's mother whispers urgently to her husband, holding him steady as the mage works.

"The castle is surrounded... I won't make it." Bryce Cousland says softly, glancing at the crying mage, who's hands merely grow brighter as her expression takes on a grim cast.

"D-Don't be ridiculous ser!" the girl stammers, not quite meeting the Teyrn's eyes as she tries to smile. "I-I've fixed worse injuries in my time! Templar sparring match gone awfully wrong - idiot cut his own leg off! Put it back on, good as new! Called him Hobbles for years afterwards! NOT because he had a limp or anything! T-t-this is nothing! I-I'll have you fixed up in n-n-no t-time at all..."

"I'm afraid the Teyrn is correct," a familiar voice states solemnly, as they all look up to see Duncan, covered head to toe in blood. "The Arl's men may not have found this exit, but they surround the castle, getting past will be difficult."

Aedan curses softly as he takes stock of their situation. Even _if _the mage could heal his father enough for the Teyrn to stand in time, there is no way all five of them could sneak through with him. His father is right. They cannot make it with him. The angry, vengeance hungry part of him demands that the Cousland's make their stand here and slay all who dare try to harm his family. The other, more rational part of him repeats how _someone _needs to survive - Fergus cannot be the last Cousland.

"Duncan, you are under no obligation to me," the Teyrn speaks suddenly. "But I beg you, take my wife and son to safety."

Duncan nods, but there is something sad and seems so, very, very old in his eyes at the words he speaks next.

"I will your lordship, but I fear I must ask for something in return."

"The man is _dying _and you're asking for favours?!" the mage exclaims, before turning to the Teyrn. "I'm exaggerating of course! You're _not _dying, not at all! Not even a little! Just give me a few more minutes and..."

"Neria," Duncan says firmly and the mage shuts up instantly. "What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world. I came to your castle, Teyrn Cousland, seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat _demands _that I leave with one."

"I... I understand," Bryce Cousland breathes out quietly and it is there that Aedan understands as well.

"I'm not leaving you Father!" Aedan snaps, gripping his father's hand tightly.

"Pup, what do we Couslands always do?"

Aedan freezes at that question. Whenever he had done something wrong, or made a selfish and unreasonable request as a child, his father would always fix him with this very same look, calm and understanding - and ask him this question.

"We... We Couslands will always do what must be done." Aedan answers, tears coursing down his face as he answers with the family motto.

"There's a good lad," his father smiles weakly at him, as Duncan grabs hold of the mage's shaking frame and pulls her away from the Teyrn and to her feet.

"We must leave quickly then," Duncan says, pushing the crying elf towards the passageway.

"Bryce love, are you sure?" Eleanor asks weakly.

"Our son will not die of Howe's treachery," Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever answers her, his voice strong. "He will _live_ and make his mark on the world."

Aedan bows his head, shaking with silent sobs - with words like that, how _can _he stay to die with him?

"Darling, go with Duncan," his mother says suddenly, her hands cupping his face and turning it up to look at hers. "You'll stand a better chance of escaping without me. "

"Eleanor!" "Mother!" The two Cousland men exclaim together in shock and horror.

No. Maker _no_. This can't be happening. Aedan turns his dark grey eyes to his mother, silently pleading for her to say otherwise - but she's not looking at him. Her eyes are locked upon his father's desperate face.

"Hush, Bryce. I'll kill every bastard who comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you!" the Teyrna declares, the tenderness in her voice at odds with the fierce expression on her face.

Aedan cannot help the sob that escapes his rapidly tightening throat. It feels like his heart has lodged itself there and a cold, dead weight is weighing upon it as he watches his mother gather his blood-soaked father into her arms.

"I love you both, _so _much." he tells his parents, wrapping his arms about them both for the last time, his vision blurry through the tears as he breathes in their scents and they are so different from usual. Another thing that Howe's treachery has irrevocably destroyed.

His mother's gentle floral scent is stained by sweat, steel and leather and his father smells so heavily of blood that he can no longer detect even the faintest smell of the vellum and ink he has come to associate so much with the man he has looked up to all of his life.

"Go, Pup," his father tells him, his breathing labored, and tears on his face. "Warn your brother. Know that we love you both. You'll do us proud."

A loud crash from somewhere outside and the raucous cheer that goes up marks the end of the time they have left together.

"They've broken through the gates. We must go, now!"

Maker he doesn't want to, but Winter and Duncan both are tugging on his arm and with one last look back, he turns and runs to the servant's exit.

He does not hear his mother's last goodbye - nor does he hear the mage's sobbing apologies as they watch from a distant ridge, Castle Cousland burn. They will head to Denerim, Duncan says, where the dwarves had been sent ahead to the remaining Wardens in the capital and the King. There Aedan can inform King Cailan of Howe's treachery and the man can be punished. From there, they head to Ostagar.

The youngest son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland hears none of their words.

All Aedan Cousland hears is that voice in his head - screaming for Howe's head. He will have his vengeance, he swears to the sky. No matter how long it takes, Rendon Howe will pay for this treachery.

* * *

**Author Note:**

As you may have noticed, I tend to update every 2 days - unfortunately, much like life and in customer service, all good things must come to an end, you can only pick two. Fast, Good or Makes Sense and Grammatically 'Close enough'.

I am going to go with 'Halfway Decent', 'Makes Sense' and 'Grammatically Close Enough'. (And I defeat the purpose of the previous sentence by making a third option) Reason as towards this is: It's midterm season and I'd rather not flunk out of school. So I will probably be updating once a week - most likely on Sundays.

Next time: Our Human Noble's life in tatters, we move on to Denerim and the Alienage there within. There is to be a wedding - the joining of two lives in love and harmony and - Maker that is a lot of blood.


	9. Chapter 9: A City Elf

**Author Note: **Changed my mind. Saturdays will be release days.

* * *

_"Take another step human, and I guarantee it shall be your last. My friends are dead and my life is in tatters because of you and your kin. I have nothing left to lose, but you still possess your other eye." _

Kallian Tabris is above all things, kind at heart. It is not something she shouts from the rooftops of the Denerim alienage, but as her close family knows, Adaia Tabris's girl is a complete and utter softy.

Perhaps it was because of her daughter's soft-hearted-ness that Adaia was so adamant on training her daughter in the arts of war and perhaps it is due to her mother's untimely and brutal death at the hands of humans that whatever inherent kindness that resides in Kallian's heart is hiding behind a nigh impenetrable stone wall that is covered in spikes, and only opens towards her family and the elves of their alienage.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head!" a familiar voice, with an equally familiar breath accompanying it shouts into her face. The smell of stale alcohol and far too much good cheer for whatever ungodly hour of the morning it is, lead Kallian Tabris to attempt to push away her well-meaning cousin out of her face.

"Go 'way Shianni..." she mumbles, as her hand meets thin air. Why is Shianni so good at dodging, even when she's almost _always _drunk?

"Oh, get up cousin!" Shianni declares, promptly jumping on her and proceeding to tickle the living daylights out of her.

"Today's your big day! Now get up!"

"Get off get off get off get off!" Kallian shrieks with laughter as the two of them end up rolling off of the bed, to collapse in a heap of giggles.

As the two cousins catch their breaths, Kallian remembers what Shianni was probably here for.

"I'm getting married today, aren't I?" she breathes out as she stares at the moldy ceiling above them.

"Yes, you big idiot!" Shianni grins at her, rubbing her hand in Kallian's shoulder-length blonde hair, messing and tangling it dreadfully. "And you overslept too, though Uncle Cyrion and I thought you deserved it. But plans have changed!"

"What plans?" Kallian demands, her heart pounding in her chest. _Please may they have not called it off. Please tell me that they didn't call it off!_

"Your groom, Nelaros!" Shianni tells her, stars in her slightly cloudy eyes. "He's here early!"

"Really?!" Kallian exclaims, suddenly up and on her feet. "That's great! They haven't called the whole thing off!"

Shianni smiles at how her cousin's face lights up at the prospect of the wedding.

"You _do know_ that you're the one getting married, and it's not just an excuse to stuff your face, right?"

"Shut up, Shianni!" Kallian snaps playfully at her cousin. "Did Soris's bride arrive as well?"

"Yep, and he's already got himself worked into a right bundle of nerves!"

That sounds like Soris , Kallian thinks as she attempts to undo the damage her cousin has just done to her hair.

"Does my hair look all right?" she asks, as she manages to smooth out most of the tangles and pulled it back into something that looks at least part-way presentable.

"Don't worry about it. I'll fix it later, now hurry and make sure your cousin doesn't run for it."

"He's _your _cousin too!" Kallian shoots back at her, while she pulls on her shoes and her wedding dress. "You get him!"

Shianni waves her off dismissively, thoroughly sloshed from whatever it was she had been drinking earlier. Kallian rolls her eyes as she rushes downstairs to where her father is waiting for her.

Cyrion Tabris is not an old man, but the harsh life in the Denerim alienage makes him look like a man of more years. His face is wrinkled, but the smile he wears as his nineteen-year old daughter comes down the stairs in her wedding dress looking positively _radiant_, makes him look years younger.

"Ah, my little girl!" he exclaims, drawing her into a hug. "It's...the last day I'll be able to call you that." he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"Don't go getting all teary on me yet Papa!" Kallian giggles as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

Her father holds her out at arms-length and looks lovingly upon her face.

"Oh, I wish your mother could have been here to see you," he says, his voice soft with regret and longing.

Kallian's expression grows cold at that for a split second. She wishes that her mother was still alive too, but they can't change the past.

"I do too Papa" she says, as she pulls up a smile for him. "So? What should I be doing right now?"

"Well first you'd best find that cousin of yours before he runs off," Cyrion chuckles.

"If he tries to ruin this, I'll hang him upside down from the roof!" Kallian laughs, as she makes towards the door.

"One more thing before you go dear," her father calls after her, his face taken on a concerned air at her mention of hanging. "The knives, the trap-making and whatever else your mother taught you. Best not mention it to your betrothed."

Kallian's mouth takes on a grim set as she nods silently. Martial training is not looked upon kindly in the alienage - the humans don't like it when the elves know how to defend themselves. Her father and the alienage elder had probably omitted the fact that Kallian was, besides the sharpest young woman in the alienage an extremely talented pickpocket and knife-throwing, dueling rogue. They did not want to look like trouble makers - her mother had made that mistake and their family had paid dearly for it.

As she made her move towards the door, her father looks down to the worn shoes on her feet.

"Kallian!" he exclaims.

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Are you really going to go outside in those things?" he asks his voice almost scandalized.

"Well," Kallian says, glancing down at her aged footwear with holes in it. "It's something old right? And I'm quite sure they are also borrowed."

Cyrion makes a beckoning motion for her to come back inside as he heads over to an old chest in a corner of the room and pulls out a pair of leather boots.

"These were Adaia's. She'd have wanted you to have them," he smiles handing her the soft leather boots, which she takes almost reverently from him. They have been well-cared for, even after all these years, and she looks at her father's face, full of love and longing. He still misses her _so _much. She hugs her father again and promptly flips off her worn and ratty shoes and pulls on her mother's old boots, before standing and twirling around in her dress.

"Well? How do I look?"

"Beautiful," her Papa smiles at her. "Now go find that cousin of yours."

-0-

She finds Soris lounging near the entrance to the alienage - and he freezes when he sees his cousin in all her wedding finery bearing down on him.

"Sorissssss!" she shouts as she charges him. Her cousin looks positively terrified for a few seconds before catching her and swinging her around to stand in front of him.

"Andraste's flaming knickers! Don't do that!" he gasps, as he tries to catch his breath. "Well, you here to celebrate the end of our independence together?"

Kallian fixes him with a glare, which he quails under a little.

"Well it's easy for you!" he tells her. "Apparently your groom is a dream come true. My bride sounds like a dying mouse."

"It can't be _that_ bad Soris. I'm sure she's a nice girl." Kallian tells her cousin firmly.

"Great," her red-headed cousin says with mock enthusiasm. "I'll just spend the next fifty years with a 'nice' girl who hides grain away for the winter!"

"Soris, you haven't even _met _her yet."

"I _have_. They arrived early from Highever. Didn't Shianni tell you that?"

"Yes, so let's go meet my 'dreamy' betrothed!" Kallian says excitedly before, as per usual, dragging Soris with her as she rushes towards the vehnadahl where the ceremony is to take place, talking to each and every one of her well-wishers and thanking them for coming.

"And don't even _think _about running off to join the Dalish," she hisses at Soris after their talk with Taeodor.

It is then that the first sign of how awful this wedding is going to go when the finely dressed human man enters the alienage.

The human approaches the bridesmaids from behind as Shianni is waving to her, pointing at a pair of elves near the tree and mouthing words that Kallian can't quite make out, when the human man grabs ahold of the girl next to Shianni.

"Let me go! Stop, please!" the girl shrieks, and Kallian breaks out into a run, only to be stopped by Soris when the human lets go and the girl stumbles forward.

"It's a party isn't it?" the human says, his high-class accent denoting him as some rich bastard with too much time on his hands. "Grab a whore and have a good time!" he laughs to his two friends behind him, before his eyes fall upon Shianni and her bright, distinguishing red hair.

"Take this little elven wench here... So young and...vulnerable..." he says his tone a thousand different kinds of wrong, sending all sorts of warning and danger signals right to Kallian's brain.

Damn humans. Have they not taken enough from them already?

"Touch me, and I'll _gut you_,_ you _pig!" her fiery cousin shouts back defiantly. _Maker she's still a little drunk isn't she? _Sick bastards like these always wanted those with 'some fight in them'. Kallian moves to act but Soris grabs hold of her arm, stopping her.

"I know what you're thinking, but maybe, we shouldn't get involved..."

"Maybe?!" Kallian hisses indignantly. "Maybe?! Shianni is going to get herself _killed_! For the record, your objection has been noted. Now get out of my way!"

"Fine! But let's _try _to be diplomatic, please?" Soris relents, wilting in face of her fury when the human bastard takes notice of them.

"What's this? Another lovely one to keep me company?"

"I'm going to ask you to leave, human." Kallian says as calmly as she can between grit teeth, glaring murder at the human from her pale brown eyes.

"Do you have _any _idea who I am?!" the human demands angrily when there is a tap on his shoulder. As he turns a wine bottle slams the bastard in the face courtesy of Shianni.

While Kallian and every other elf would be rejoicing at the poetic justice that has been served, their joy is short-lived, and things take a turn for the worse.

His two 'friends' turn out to not really be friends at all, but rather bodyguards. Because unfortunately for all of them, the man Shianni just brained with a bottle turns out to be the Arl of Denerim's son. A real piece of work that one.

"W-What?" Shianni breathes, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, Maker..."

"Look, things just got a little out of hand," Kallian starts when she is interrupted by one of Vaughan's lackeys.

"You've got a lot of nerve, knife ears! This'll-" the man starts when there is suddenly a rather large, and sharp glass shard point pressed lightly against his throat. The man so much as _swallowed _and there would be a great deal of blood all over her dress. Adaia had taught her well about which parts of the throat were "sprayers" as she called them.

"All right, then. Let's try this again," Kallian says, her voice deceptively pleasant. "You are going to take this filth home. If you don't mention this, we won't." The 'or else' was being clearly conveyed through the glass against his throat. Amazing how direct one needed to be with a human! And they claimed _elves _were the _stupid _ones.

The two humans promptly leave the alienage with the Arl's son, draped between them, while Soris and Kallian attempt to reassure Shianni that nothing bad is going to happen because of this.

"It'll be all right," Soris says. "He won't tell anyone an elven woman took him down."

Shianni doesn't look wholly convinced, but nods anyway. "I- I'm going to go and clean up."

Kallian looks about the square and calls out to those present.

"Is everyone else all right?" she asks and is answered with a chorus of 'ayes' and 'fucking human bastards'.

"I think we're just shaken. What was that about?" an unfamiliar high-pitched voice asks and Kallian turns to see a rather mousy looking young woman accompanied by another unfamiliar - Maker she'd know _that_ handsome face if he was living in the alienage - young man dressed in rather fine clothing.

Soris just about breaks into a nervous sweat at the sight of them.

"Oh, just looks like the arl's son started drinking too early," he laughs nervously. "Um, well let's not ruin this day. Uh, Kallian? This is my betrothed, Velora," he says indicating the mousy looking young woman. Perhaps Soris did have a point - but she was probably a lovely girl regardless.

"Kallian Tabris," she introduces herself to her cousin's bride-to-be. "And this handsome man must be my betrothed, Nelaros." she smiles at the Highever elf.

Nelaros smiles nervously back at her, as he nods at her words.

"I'm a lucky man to be so warmly welcomed."

Adaia Tabris's only child blushes furiously at her betrothed's voice. He didn't see her. Thank the Maker he hadn't seen her threaten that man with a broken bottle!

Kallian does not really notice Soris and Velora stepping off for a moment to speak with one another.

"Well, here we are," he laughs nervously. "Are you nervous?"

"Well, ummm," Kallian stammers, not quite sure what to say. "A little. You?"

The elf from Highever smiles a little at that.

"I thought I'd stay calm, but finally seeing you has made me...uh...Let's just say I'm not calm."

Kallian blushes at that, and looks away shyly.

"Ummm... So how was your journey? Uneventful, I hope?"

She doesn't quite hear his answer, so absorbed she is in her husband-to-be's features. She thinks she's already a little in love with him. Her Papa hadn't told her much about him besides the fact that he was confident that the man, a blacksmith's assistant could provide for her and was known to be kind.

"Come on cousin, we should let them get ready." Soris says suddenly, knocking Kallian out of her stupor, as he backs away from his betrothed.

"We'll see you two in a bit. Don't disappear on us," Velora warns them playfully.

Once their betrothed are firmly out of sight, Kallian drags Soris to a nook near the alienage entrance.

"Maker I can't _wait _to get married!" she gushes, her hands pressed against her cheeks, as if trying to hide the blush that is creeping up her face.

"What?! Are you kidding?" Soris complains. "I'm so nervous I think I'm going to be sick!"

Before Kallian can even begin to reprimand him, a strangely accented and rough voice speaks.

"This alienage thing? It's rather nice, actually. I wouldn't mind livin' in a place like this..."

Kallian motions for Soris to be silent as she peers out of the alleyway to see a very short, stockily built woman with red hair, dressed in leather armour walking away from one of the Alienage shacks. Next to her is a young, very pretty elf with black hair who is walking about bare foot, dressed in strange short light blue robes and black leggings.

"Really? Eadric always described them as cesspools of poverty and misery. Though you do have a point Brosca - it's rather cheery for a cesspool! Look at all the garlands and flowers - do you think it's a birthday? I've heard that people sometimes throw parties for people when its their birthday!" the elf chatters away. "I've never been to a party - you don't suppose we could ask to join them. Unless that's rude or something...And Maker I think I stepped in something!" the elf exclaims sounding far more fascinated than upset about stepping in dog shit.

The dwarf practically snarls in irritation at the elf.

"Why am I stuck with _you_?" she demands of her boots before shooting the girl a glare. "And I didn't ask for your opinion nug-licker!"

"But I gave it to you anyway! Because sharing opinions is how ideas grow! Or so the First Enchanter always said - the hypocrite. That's the mage they put in charge of the other mages at the Tower, just so you know. Sort of like a king, but not really, because the templars are allowed to chop his head off if they ever felt like it. Don't think they're allowed to do that to the King of Ferelden. Which is why Duncan said that I- oh there's Duncan! Duncan!" the pale raven-haired elf shouts, jumping up and down and waving excitedly, as she points towards someone at the alienage entrance before dashing away, slowly followed by the dwarf.

The Tabris cousins follow the girl's finger to see a dark-skinned human man entering the alienage.

"Oh boy," Soris sighs. "This...this is not good."

Kallian finds herself nodding in agreement. A human in the alienage after that nasty business with Vaughan?

"I don't care what kind of business he sent those two servants here on, but he needs to go," Kallian declares.

"Aaand here I was hoping you wouldn't be the one doing something stupid," Soris groans, putting his head in his hands.

"Relax cousin!" Kallian sniffs daintily at him. "I'm just going to talk to him. It's not like I'm going to kill him or anything - I'd get blood all over my dress!"

By the time they reach the man, his two servants have left the alienage, though their argument can be heard quite clearly throughout.

"Good day," the human says politely, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing slightly. Kallians' eyebrows go up at that. Manners? From a human? "I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding."

"Thanks," the bride-to-be says curtly. "But please leave. I'd rather avoid any unpleasantness."

The man smiles - actually smiles! He even has the nerve to chuckle as he answers.

"What manner of unpleasantness might you be referring to?"

"The kind involving our boots in your backside," Kallian smiles sweetly, where Soris looks a little frightened.

"_Our?!" _he hisses in a panicked whisper.

The human looks at her, utterly unafraid - why should he be? He is armed, and she is not. He is a tall, fully grown man in armour, and she a female elf in a wedding dress.

But that simply means he'll underestimate her - no one ever expects the one in a dress to steal your blades and run you through with them.

"I'm sorry, but I have no intention of leaving," he says calmly.

Kallian puts her hands on her hips and looks straight up into the human's eyes, letting him see the hard light in her eyes.

"Look, I'm going to ask once more. Politely. Please leave."

The human smiles - actually smiles at that.

"She keeps her composure, even when facing down an unknown and armed human. A true gift, wouldn't you say Valendrian?" he says, his eyes never leaving her face.

Both Tabris' eyes grow wide as Elder Valendrian comes out of from wherever he had been hiding moments before.

"I would say the world has far more use for those who know how to stay their blades," the Elder says, before his face crinkles into a smile. "It has been far too long my old friend."

"You know this human elder?"

"May I present Duncan, head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden," the alienage elder states, before turning a critical eye on the human. "I must ask, were the two you sent-"

"Yes, they are recruits. Some of the finest I have had the honour of meeting."

"The elf included?" Kallian says skeptically. Dwarves are different than elves - they are more of a novelty to the humans, there being so few of them on the surface.

The human still has the nerve to laugh.

"Appearances can be deceiving. Surana is while easily excited, a very talented mage."

"Surana?" Soris repeats the name to himself. "Surana as in uncle Haylen's girl? The one that was taken away?"

Kallian brings to mind old Haylen Surana - a distant relative of theirs who wasn't really an uncle but sort of was in some strange and complicated way, who had moved from Lothering - and the pretty elven mage they had seen earlier that day and tried to reconcile the two images.

There was not much to go on - Haylen was not exactly pretty and the girl had been at a distance and the pale blue tattoo on the right half of the girl's face made it hard to tell. They both had black hair - something not all that common in their alienage, but that was about it.

"Perhaps. Surana has no memory of a life outside of the Circle," the Grey Warden shrugs.

Well that probably explained why the girl had been so pleased to step in dog-shit, maybe, Kallian thinks.

"As good as it is to see you again Duncan, my question remains unanswered. Why are you here?"

Duncan's face grows solemn at the question.

"The worst has happened. A Blight is starting. King Cailan summons the Grey Wardens to Ostagar to fight the horde alongside his armies. We hoped to meet the King before heading south, to bring him news of Highever, but we were too late. Though I admit my coming here had other reasons."

"Highever? What happened in Highever?" Kallian demands. Maker she hoped it wasn't bad news. It would be absolutely terrible to find out that her husband was fleeing Highever for some stupid human reason.

She fights the pout off of her face as she is summarily ignored by both the human and the Elder.

"Yes...well, this is an awkward time. There is to be a wedding - two in fact."

"So I see. By all means, attend to your ceremonies. My concerns can wait, for now."

"Very well. Children, treat Duncan as my guest. And for Maker's sake, take your places!"

Kallian turns on her heel in an excited whirl as she drags Soris with her, her cousin flapping behind her like a red and green flag as she moves too fast for him to truly keep up. She does not let him fall though - his suit would be ruined and that would be absolutely mortifying.

Shianni puts a crown of blue flowers to rest on her head and a similar crown is put on Velora's. Everyone is smiling, even Soris who seems to have finally gotten his nerves a little under control and he's even laughing as the two couples take their places on the decorated stage in front of the vhenadahl.

It is the happiest day of Kallian Tabris's life, she thinks as she takes Nelaros's hands in hers and smiles shyly up at her groom, who answers with his own kind smile as Mother Boann begins the ceremony.

A pity it did not last longer.

* * *

**Author Note:**There is a lot of escaping involved in most everyone's lives - but this is getting a little ridiculous.

See you next week.


	10. Chapter 10: Blood in the Halls

**Author Note: **The Maker hates city elves it seems. When we last saw Kallian, she was getting married and then...

* * *

Kallian awakes to the pounding in her skull and the worried face of her red-headed cousin.

The Maker must hate her or something for her to be even more hung over than her cousin.

"Oh good you're all right!" Shianni gasps in relief, pulling her into a hug. There is this indistinct sobbing murmur coming from somewhere in the room, a litany of prayer being repeated over and over again, interspersed with quiet sobs.

"Wha-What happened?" Kallian mumbles, as she puts a hand to her aching head. This...wasn't a hangover, as she gingerly touches what is probably an impressive looking bruise on her temple.

The look on Shianni's face is full of 'you don't want to know', but the memory surfaces easily enough and Kallian's hands clench into white-knuckled fists. That human bastard had come in, bold as you please, and utterly _ruined _her wedding, all for his sick pleasure. Kallian pulls of the crushed ruin that was her crown of flowers and looks regretfully at the tears and smudges on her dress.

"They locked us in here to wait until that... Bastard is," Velora - Soris's bride Kallian reminds herself - shudders at the words to come out of her mouth. Ready for us."

"Well then we need to get out of here," Kallian states the obvious, as she pulls herself up into a crouch.

"Forgive me if I don't hold my breath!" the dark-skinned woman - Kallian can't quite recall her name -snaps. "The door is locked and solid, and we're unarmed!"

_That_ had never stopped Mama, Kallian thinks to herself, a vicious grin spreading across her features as her eyes sweep across the room, searching for anything that can be used as a weapon. Adaia had taught her many important things.

_Anything can be used as a weapon girl. You can kill a man with his own shoe if need be, brain him hard enough with it. _

_But what if he's bigger than me Mama?, _Kallian had asked and Adaia had given her that secret smile of hers. The wicked grin that was just for her as she imparted pearls of wisdom to her little girl.

_Size don't matter much once your knife's in his belly. _

"Look, we'll do what they want, go home, and try to forget this ever happened!" the other women are saying, and Kallian decides on ignoring them all as she finds nothing convenient to use in the room.

She could throw a table at a man, but it would be of little use if there was more than one. Also it was heavy, and not necessarily fatal. Of all days to be without a knife! Her mother would be appalled! Her eyes go to her feet and Adaia's boots on them.

"She's right. It'll be worse if we resist."

Kallian pulls her left boot off of her foot and presses firmly against the wooden heel. If the Tabris girl knew anything about her mother, it was that Adaia was _sneaky _and the small snap and the small set of lockpicks that pop out of the sole of the boots only reinforces that image of her mother in her.

The other women, except the one praying in the corner stare at her in a mixed array of shock and awe, as she snaps the heel back in place and pulls it back on, before doing the same to the right boot, from which a small knife has been cleverly hidden.

The Maker would piss himself first before Kallian Tabris let a _human _touch her on her wedding day. Fucking bastards had best try to bed a _bear _before going after her.

She gives Shianni a wicked smile which her cousin returns. Kallian is quite sure that she can pick the lock on the door. Considering that they are merely a bunch of unarmed elven women, there probably isn't a guard at the door. Provided that the other women can keep their mouths shut and listen to her, they might all get out of here alive and unscathed.

-0-

Unfortunately since the Maker hates elves, one of the other women die and Kallian never gets a chance and her cousin is dragged away kicking and screaming.

"Shianni!" Kallian snarls at the two guards who have been left behind to 'deal with her' restrain her as she fights to go after the sick bastards.

"This one is a scrapper all right," the one on the left laughs. Kallian whirls on the armoured man to snarl in his face, her eyes blazing with rage and pure hatred, as she manages to wrench herself out of their grip, her hands and arm bouncing painfully off of their metal encased bodies, as she puts distance between them and herself. The door and her knife on the other side of the room - with the damn humans in the way.

Had there been only _one_, Kallian could easily beat his brains out onto the floor, but there are _two of them_. And while Kallian may not be a stranger to unfair fights, she is usually armed with more than a set of lockpicks.

"Uh... hello?" a familiar nervous stammer draws everyone's attention towards the door. Kallian's jaw drops open in shock at the sight of Soris, with a sword in hand.

The two soldiers laugh at the sight of the incredibly nervous-looking elf in the doorway.

"A little elfling with a stolen sword!" they laugh advancing on her cousin.

"Soris, run!" Kallian shouts at him. Because Soris, Maker bless his heart, is not a fighter. Soris is not brave and reckless and fierce like Kallian is. Adaia had tried to teach her nephew, but he did not have the same spark Kallian did.

While Soris may not be the bravest of the alienage, he was rather clever and wisely slid the sword across the floor to Kallian, the one out of the two of them who was probably capable of using it. She snaps it up off the floor as she charges forward towards the two distracted soldiers.

"Oh, sod." Are the first soldier's last wods as Kallian rams the blade straight through the gap in his armour into his belly. It is a rare thing for a house guard to wear his armour properly, her mother had taught her. Most dispense with their heavy mail, preferring to wear plain clothes beneath the plate. The arl's men are no different she is happy to discover as she withdraws the blade, soaked in blood. She looks up and sees Soris with a crossbow - _a crossbow of all things!_- in his hands and he has just shot the second man in the throat.

"Andraste's ass! Where did you get that?!" Kallian exclaims as her cousin pulls the arrow out of the dead human's throat with trembling hands, getting blood all over his wedding clothes.

"Grey...Warden," Soris pants out, the pallor of his face brought out quite clearly by the red blood splashed across his face, as Kallian listens to his story while looting the dead soldiers bodies for coin, keys and anything else she can find a use for. "Duncan. He gave us his sword and crossbow, but that's all we have."

"Us?"

"Nelaros. Your betrothed."

"I know who he is!" Kallian snaps at him, motioning for him to get a move on it. They have Shianni to save.

"He's the reason why we're here. He _lost _it on those who wanted to 'hope for the best'. I..." her cousin falters a little on those words, sounding almost ashamed of himself. "I didn't know what to do."

"You came," Kallian tells him, taking a brief moment to give her cousin a hug. "That's what matters."

Soris has never been a leader. Most would accuse him of cowardice. Kallian called it alienage sense and basic decency. It was a miracle in and of itself that Soris was not a bitter and angry drunken wreck. But could one expect feats of reckless daring-do from a boy who had lost both of his parents to humans and watched them hang the strongest woman the Denerim alienage had ever had the privilege of seeing at a young age?

A warm and fuzzy feeling has settled in her stomach despite the fact that the two of them are fighting their way through the arl's kitchen. Her cousin and her betrothed had come for them. Nelaros had come for _her_. If she wasn't already in love with him, this would be the deciding point. She's already decided that the moment they reach her husband - never mind that the ceremony was never completed - she was going to throw herself into his arms and snog the man senseless. Right after they rescued Shianni, of course.

But because the Maker _really_ hated elves, or maybe just hated Kallian Tabris, that plan fell through quite rapidly.

Just as she kicked down the door towards the hall where Nelaros was waiting for them, the first sight to greet her was that of Nelaros' blood arcing up in a spray as one of the arls' men cut him down.

"NO!" she screams, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"See? I told you, there'd be more. Elves run in packs, like rodents."

Kallian grips the sword in her hand in a white-knuckled death grip. Maker burn them all. She curses silently. Had they not stolen enough already? Their homes, their heritage, her aunt and uncle, her _mother. _And now they take away her husband -_ the ceremony hadn't ended but it was a marriage, right?_ - chance at a happy future?

Kallian moves in a white-wedding dress and blue flower adorned blur, and there is one less human bastard in the world, a lockpick jammed through his throat, and she knocks him down to the floor.

She brings up her sword to block a blow from the guard captain - who had much better reflexes than the other son-of-a-bitch with a crossbow bolt in the knee.

"You knife-eared _bitch_!" the guard snarls in her face, the shock of being blocked by an elf - and a woman at that evident on his face.

"I'll show you a _knife_!" she snarls right back at him, before suddenly ducking out of the stalemate they had had to slip beneath his stance and stab him in the eye with a knife.

Instinctively the man lets go of his blade as he screams, his gauntleted hands reaching for the knife handle, but Kallian does not let him, as she pulls the handle out of his reach by dragging it through his face.

She follows the now dead man to the floor, ramming her knife into the ruin that is his face over and over and over again.

"Kallian, oh Kallian..." Soris is pulling her off of the corpse and wrapping her in the biggest hug he can manage. "I'm so sorry." he says and Kallian's not sure if he's apologizing to her or to Nelaros.

"We need to keep moving," she says as she shrugs her cousin's embrace off, moving to kneel by Nelaros' corpse. "He died to save me. Let's not let it be in vain." she mumbles, brushing her dead husband's face.

A ring lies on the floor near him and Kallian realizes, with a small sob that it is a wedding ring. Her wedding ring - or it was to be. Her father had told her that her betrothed had made the wedding bands himself. She slips the thin silver band onto her finger.

"Vaughan dies," she whispers as they leave a blood soaked trail through the castle. "The Void can take the consequences."

She only hopes that they can save Shianni.

-0-

It is official, Kallian learns as she and Soris burst into the Arl's son's rooms. The Maker _despised _elves _and _Kallian Tabris. Had it been written somewhere, in stone or lyrium or upon the heavens themselves that _nothing _Kallian loved could remain safe and whole?

Shianni is lying on the floor, her few clothes torn to shreds, her naked body bruised and bleeding, sobbing and whimpering as a human bastard pleasures himself between her legs. Another human and that whoreson Vaughan, lounging on a chair, his shirt and trousers in disarray, a goblet of wine in hand, watching.

"My, my what have we here?" he drawls.

"Get your filthy hands off of her!" Kallian screams at the man raping her cousin, and a knife takes him right in the neck, severing a sprayer, and the blood mists out across the stone floor and Shianni.

"All right, let's not be too hasty here. Surely we can talk this over..." he says getting up from his seat to approach her.

A hastily thrown blade him square in the eye.

"Take another step human, and I guarantee it shall be your last." Kallian snarls, pointing at him threateningly.

"You kill me, and your pigsty alienage will _**burn**_." Vaughan shrieks at her, as his last guard moves to attack. Soris is, however faster and dispatches the man with three crossbow bolts to the chest.

"My friends are dead and my life is in tatters because of you," Kallian informs the Arl's son planting a boot firmly on the man's chest as she draws a second knife, which she tests gently against her own hand. "I have nothing left to lose." She tells him looking the man straight in the eye, and there is none of the soft-heartedness that Kallian's family and alienage knows in her expression.

"But you still possess your other eye."

-0-

"You've returned!" Elder Valendrian looks the closest he's ever been to tears as he rushes them at the gate. The Grey Warden is there too, for some reason.

"Has Shianni been hurt? Where is Tormey's daughter, Nola?" he demands taking in all of their faces at once. The blood and tears are evident enough of what has happened, Kallian thinks.

"Nola," Velora whimpers. "Nola didn't make it. She resisted and..."

"They killed her..." Shianni gets out in a whisper, shivering where she stands, wrapped in clothes they looted from the servants' quarters.

"Nelaros too," Soris tells the elder. "The guards killed him."

"I see..." the elder sighs, suddenly looking so very, very old. "Would you please take Shianni home? She needs rest." He asks Velora, who complies, Kallian is about to follow after them, to be sure that her cousin is as all right as she can be, given the circumstances. But the Elder motions for her to stay.

"Now tell me, what happened?"

Kallian glances at the blood stains beneath her nails before looking straight into the Elder's face as she answers, almost proudly:

"Vaughan's dead."

"Then the garrison could already be on their way. You have little time." Duncan remarks, his expression sombre.

"We need to get out of Denerim," Kallian mumbles - she needs to keep the humans away from the alienage and her family. She does not regret what she did to Vaughan - not one bit - but the consequences...

"The guards are here!" a panicked shout brings Kallian once more to the conclusion that yes, the Maker did indeed hate her.

-0-

"It was me." Kallian Tabris declares proudly as she steps forward, sending silent, mental apologies to her dear Papa. He'd have to watch them hang his daughter too now. Soris had better take care of him once she was gone.

"You expect me to believe one woman did all of that?"

Kallain is just about to offer the old guard captain a personal demonstration when Valendrian interjects with a:

"We are not all so helpless, Captain."

The guard captain looks at her with - is that _respect_ in his eyes? - she must be seeing things, as he speaks.

"You save many by coming forward. I don't envy your fate, but I applaud your courage." He turns to the gathering congregation of elves who have no doubt heard the news by now. "This elf will wait in the dungeons until the arl returns. The rest of you, back to your houses!"

"Captain, a word if you please." Duncan says, inserting himself into the man's space easily.

"What is it, Grey Warden? The situation is well under control as you can see."

The look on the man's face is just a tad mischievous in Kallian's opinion as the dark-skinned man speaks.

"Be that as it may. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription. I remove this woman into my custody."

"What?!" Kallian, Soris and many of those surrounding them exclaim.

"Son of a tied down- Very well Grey Warden; I cannot challenge your right, but I'll ask you one thing: Get this elf out of the city. **Today**."

"Agreed."

"Now, I need to get my men on the streets before the news hits. Move out!"

And just like that the city guard leave.

"Say your goodbyes, we leave _immediately._" the Warden tells her as a very odd looking group of people approach the alienage. Two dwarves, one the angry-woman from this morning and the other an unfamiliar looking blonde- dwarf with a rather magnificent looking beard, a tired-looking dark-haired human man and the girl Surana. They are all dressed in an eclectic mix of plate and leather armour varying in quality and wear.

"Another one?" the male dwarf remarks a smile on his face as he neared. "Do you have a thing for saving people from death sentences, Warden?"

"Did the party end already? Or did the guards put a stop to it because you were too happy? Templars are nasty like that. I mean just because _you've _never seen a girl before in your life and you're miserable doesn't mean you have to make everyone else miserable too. You know, I bet Daylen was right and the templars really are all just _jealous_ and-"

"Shut up, Surana."

Kallian ignores the other Wardens bickering and conversation to turn to her family which has all assembled at the gates, her father and Shianni too.

She hugs the living daylights out of her father.

"Be safe," he tells her. "I'll miss you."

"You're amazing, you know that?" Shianni tells her, wrapping her in a hug. "I love you cousin, make us proud out there."

"You know," Soris says, tears in his eyes, like the crybaby he's always been. "You've been my hero since we were kids. It's just official, now."

Kallian cannot stop the tears from flowing as her family hugs her for what may be very well the last time.

This is her family. They need to stick together. They need her there to protect them and Maker damn those humans for forcing her to leave.

"I love you all. Be safe. Promise me that. Please. Don't die. Please..." she tells them, as they release her.

Kallian wipes a hand across her eyes and dries her face with a corner of her ruined wedding dress. When she turns to face the rest of the Grey Wardens, her eyes are dry and her face is hard and unreadable.

She is going to make it back to her family one day. And the Maker had best watch himself if he tries to take them away from her.

* * *

**Author Note: And that's the end of the City Elf Origin. I'm not exactly 100% happy with how I ended this origin or more specifically the quality of the writing at the end, so perhaps I'll revisit this chapter later and edit it. **

**Next we travel to the Brecillian Forest where we add yet another elf to our odd group of Warden Recruits. There is a cave and a creepy mirror and everyone knows that it is always a bad idea to... oh Tamlen...**


End file.
